


My Phone’s on Vibrate For You

by misslucyjane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:39:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslucyjane/pseuds/misslucyjane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock texts John all the time. Today’s different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5564.html?thread=19177404#t19177404) prompt from [](http://users.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc_fic/profile)[](http://users.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc_fic/)**sherlockbbc_fic**. And then it kind of ... grew.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock texts John all the time. Today’s texts are a little different.

Sherlock texts John all the time, whether it makes sense (“Lestrade just called, be at Victoria station by 3 pm., SH”) or not (“Will you bring my book on 18th century alchemy upstairs? I need to look up something. SH”). He texts John at work, when he’s on a date, when he’s asleep, when he’s doing the shopping, when he’s on the bus.

John answers them all, even if it’s just a “No. JW,” and he doesn’t tells Sherlock how often the texts make him chuckle. (He’s also grateful he got an unlimited text plan. He had no idea how useful it would turn out to be.)

So when his phone beeps while he’s consulting with a patient, John just glances at the phone and goes on with his advising — and then does a double take, because rather than something like “We’re out of beans” or even “The murderer was left-handed and had one leg shorter than the other,” as usual, the text message says, “When you get home I want to blow you against the front door. SH.”

John stammers a moment and discreetly pulls a file folder over his phone so his patient won’t see the message. The phone beeps again, and John can feel himself blush even without seeing it.

He hastily sees the patient out and then looks at his phone. “And then I want you to fuck me on the stairs. I can’t wait long enough to get you into bed. SH.”

He texts back, “What’s got into you?”

The answer comes right away. “You, later tonight. SH.”

“Not funny,” John types and shoves the phone aside so he can get some work done.

The phone beeps twice more as he’s making notes, and once again while he’s seeing the next patient. He waits until that patient is gone to look, dreading (only not really, because he wants to see what else Sherlock wants to do to him) what Sherlock has said now.

“I want to lick every inch of you. SH.”

“I could suck your nipples for an hour until you beg me to touch your cock. SH.”

“I can give you testimonials about how good my blowjobs are. SH.”

John types, “Stop it,” and lays his face against the window to cool down. This is completely inappropriate. Worse than that, whatever Sherlock’s trying to do, it’s working. John wants to go home, he wants to throw off his clothes and surrender to Sherlock’s mouth, he wants to let Sherlock keep those promises.

It occurs to John that it’s been entirely too long since he’s gotten laid.

His phone beeps. John stares at it. Crosses the office, picks it up, closes his eyes as he opens the text. He opens one eye to read.

“Slow. You beneath me. Gasping my name. Slow. My hands on your chest. You’re inside me. Slow. SH.”

John’s hand starts shaking and he puts down his phone.

It beeps again.

“I want to see your face as you come inside me the first time. SH.”

John picks up his phone. His hands are still shaking as he types, “You win. I’m coming home,” and turns off the phone as soon as the message is sent.

He has to think.

He has to think of what he’s going to do to Sherlock in return.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s made a promise and he intends to keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the PWP portion of the evening.

The problem with the bus ride home is that it gives John time to think, and upon thinking — and trying not to think about the acts that Sherlock described — John decides he’s being ridiculous. Sherlock is his _flatmate_ , for God’s sake, and he’s never given any indication before today of being sexually interested in _anyone_ , much less in John. He’s messing around, _has_ to be, for reasons comprehensible only to himself.

John gets off the bus when it stops on Baker Street, and thinks he ought to go to the Chinese restaurant on the corner before he goes home. He’ll go up to the flat with supper and they’ll eat and have a good laugh and forget about it tomorrow.

His phone beeps as he’s walking. John takes it out and reads the message Sherlock sent: “Where are you? I’m waiting. SH.”

John types, “On my way to get us supper,” sends the message, and continues the walk to restaurant.

His phone beeps again. “So you don’t want the blowjob? SH.”

John stops abruptly, staring at his phone, and barely glances up to mutter, “Sorry,” as someone bumps into him. His hands are trembling as he types, “I’ll get takeaway instead,” and he pivots on his heel to hurry to 221b.

He bursts into the flat, breathing fast from anticipation as much as from running up the stairs, and Sherlock looks up from the newspaper. “Sherlock,” John gasps, and Sherlock tosses the paper aside and rises from the armchair. “Sherlock, I,” John tries again, but Sherlock is already advancing to him, his expression determined, his eyes predatory and fixed on John’s mouth. “Sherlock,” John tries again weakly, and then can only whimper as Sherlock reaches behind him to close and lock the door.

John leans back against the door. He wants to close his eyes, but Sherlock is still staring at him intensely as his hands go to work on John’s trousers and John can’t look away, doesn’t even want to blink. His fingers scratch into the wood and he stares at Sherlock, into his eyes when he isn’t watching Sherlock’s mouth with its pink smooth lips.

Sherlock runs his fingertips over John’s stomach, making it shiver, and John finally closes his eyes with a moan. He feels Sherlock’s cool fingers push his jacket from his shoulders, unbutton his shirt, tug his trousers down his hips. He moans as he grasps Sherlock’s shoulders and feels Sherlock slide down his body.

“Lovely, just lovely,” Sherlock whispers as he sucks kisses onto John’s hip and lower belly, drawing up the skin between his teeth sometimes. John’s knees shake. He twists a hand into Sherlock’s hair and dares to open his eyes, just in time to see Sherlock’s candy-pink tongue dart out to taste the head of his cock.

John screws his eyes shut and thrusts his hand deeper into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock’s tongue circles the head and strokes the shaft, while Sherlock’s hands pin John in place, surprisingly strong, kneading lightly in a gentle rhythm. Sherlock’s hair is soft between his fingers, and when John slides his hand farther back to cup the back of Sherlock’s skull Sherlock hums softly and finally takes John’s cock between his lips.

John pants harder, biting his lip to keep from cursing, as Sherlock takes him deeper and then pulls back, pushes deep and pulls back, over and over until John gasps, “Sherlock!” and clutches at his hair again.

Sherlock pulls off and wipes saliva from his lips with the back of his hand. “I realized while I was waiting for you to come home that you fucking me on the stairs is impractical,” he says as he pulls off John’s shoes and pushes his trousers to his ankles. His normally smooth voice is rough around the edges as he takes John’s hands and leans close to whisper, “But I fantasize about it _all the time_.”

“Oh, God, Sherlock,” John breathes. He grabs Sherlock’s shirtfront and yanks him close, and kisses Sherlock fiercely, right on that beautiful mouth.

Sherlock is entirely unresponsive for a moment — and then he leans into John, bracing himself on the door. His lips part in a way John can only think of as shy, which is surprising given where that mouth just was. John eases up on his kiss, pushes his hands into Sherlock’s hair and coaxes Sherlock lips to part wider, Sherlock’s tongue to touch his.

Sherlock turns him, turns them, so that his own back is against the door and he can slide down it. It helps with the height difference somewhat, and John smiles and whispers, “You’re so clever,” and leans in to kiss him again.

Instead, Sherlock frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, this was a good idea.”

“Oh.” He blinks a few times, but doesn’t turn away when John kisses him again.

John steps back, out of his trousers, and pulls off his t-shirt. Sherlock leads him to the couch, lies down as Sherlock directs him and tries to calm his breathing as Sherlock kneels over his body. Sherlock is still completely dressed, so John pops the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt as Sherlock kisses his mouth and licks his neck. “Are you,” John swallows hard, “are you planning to do — what you said? You’re going to lick me all over?”

“I’m certainly going to try,” Sherlock murmurs and nibbles John’s throat before moving lower. John pushes at Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock kneels up to undo his cuffs and pull the shirt off, smiling faintly all the while.

John runs his hands over Sherlock’s pale, sleek body. He knows he shouldn’t want this — what he should be doing, he knows, is talking sense into Sherlock, being the grounded one, that’s his role in Sherlock’s life — but more than that he wants to taste this skin, tease those nipples with his tongue, feel that heart beating under his lips.

And more, he realizes as he unbuckles Sherlock’s belt and Sherlock lets him, that same faint smile on his lips. He wants to do everything with Sherlock that Sherlock wants to do with him.

He sits and pulls Sherlock closer by the legs as Sherlock watches him through his lashes, and dips his head to lick Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock kisses his hair. “John, I’m fine, I don’t need –”

“Sex should be mutual,” John whispers. He kisses the hollow of Sherlock’s throat. “You can lavish attention on me later.” He reaches between Sherlock’s legs and Sherlock growls, low, while John wants to laugh out loud. The great Sherlock Holmes, the detached Sherlock Holmes, married-to-his-work Sherlock Holmes has an erection that only grows harder as John traces it with his fingers. “I’m just glad to see you’re actually human.”

“Of course I’m human,” Sherlock bites out and pushes into John’s hand insistently.

“Human enough to want sex sometimes,” says John.

Sherlock turns his face away, eyes closing. “Human enough,” he says, still in that gruff, impatient voice, and John doesn’t have time to wonder what he means before Sherlock pushes him onto his back and bites his neck. “I believe I said I wanted you to fuck me.”

“Yes, yes, we did say that,” John says, dazed, all equilibrium the little break gave him fleeing. Sherlock’s back is smooth under his hands, the skin warm, and he strokes Sherlock’s back as Sherlock kisses his chest. He groans loudly as Sherlock closes his mouth around a nipple and sucks.

“Knew you were sensitive there,” Sherlock lifts his mouth long enough to say smugly and resumes sucking him, rubbing the other nipple with his thumb.

“Oh?” John gasps. “How d’you figure?” He shoves his hand into Sherlock’s hair again.

“The t-shirts,” Sherlock mumbles. He switches to the other nipple, twisting and pinching the damp first between his finger and thumb until John pushes his hand away.

“Too much, God, Sherlock, you’re driving me mad.”

“That _is_ the idea,” Sherlock says, looking smug again, and John wraps his arms around him and rolls Sherlock beneath him — not the easiest maneuver on the narrow couch, and John feels pretty impressed with himself that he pulled it off.

“Mutual,” he admonishes when Sherlock starts to protest, and then dips his head to lick Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock grips John’s shoulders, and he lifts his hips obligingly as John tugs on his trousers.

It’s no surprise at all that Sherlock wears silk boxer shorts — burgundy in color, exquisite to the touch, doing nothing to hide the length and weight of Sherlock’s prick as John wraps his hand around it and strokes. Sherlock inhales, long lashes fluttering as his eyes close, and John moves closer so he can feel the slippery sensation of silk against his cock as he rubs alongside Sherlock’s.

“Oh,” Sherlock says faintly and his fingers dig deeper into John’s shoulders. “That’s — that’s very good.”

John chuckles into Sherlock’s neck. He wants to just rut away against Sherlock until they both come, and with so much left to do of Sherlock’s requests, it means they can go on having sex until the entire list is got through. God only knows when Sherlock will be in the mood to have sex again.

But Sherlock’s hand is already between them, pushing down his boxers, and John kneels between his legs to help him take them and his trousers and shoes off. He runs his fingers over Sherlock’s instep and smiles when Sherlock shivers, and holds Sherlock’s leg so he can mouth his way from Sherlock’s calf to his thigh.

Sherlock makes more of those faint, surprised, “Oh,” sounds as John sucks him. John rather likes it, though it makes him wonder how many of Sherlock’s lovers — and he always assumed the number was small, though now he supposes he needs to adjust that view — let Sherlock do all the work and never touched him back.

“I can’t provide testimonials,” John admits when he pulls off, and he runs his tongue over his teeth, marveling at the taste still in his mouth, the lingering heat. He looks up at Sherlock — one arm thrown over his head, color high in his cheeks, eyes closed, lips wet — and adds, “I think I’m doing all right, though, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes and rakes a hand through John’s hair. “You’re splendid.”

John kisses Sherlock’s hand. “I don’t suppose –”

“Of course,” said Sherlock and points a languid hand. “Trouser pocket.”

“Brilliant.” John scoops them up and hunts in the pockets, laughing when he finds the little bottle of lubricant and condoms Sherlock had put there. He’s just so damn _happy_ , but that doesn’t stop him from being a gentleman. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

“Quite certain. I need this, John. Sometimes I just — _need_ it.”

“All right, Sherlock.” The hair on Sherlock’s legs is dark and fine, and his skin rasps faintly under John’s fingertips. John lubricates his fingers and holds Sherlock’s thigh as he pushes into him, stopping when Sherlock’s hips buck. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll go easier.”

“No, it’s good.” Sherlock grips his shoulder. “It’s good. Deeper. More.”

“Deeper,” John whispers, face flaming. “More. Yes.” He adds another finger to open Sherlock, tries to follow the cues from Sherlock’s writhing body and the soft sounds Sherlock makes. He can’t hold back a triumphant smile when Sherlock arches his body and groans loudly, and John spends a few minutes stroking him deep, loving the unfamiliar vulnerability of Sherlock’s expression as he loses himself in physical pleasure.

They’re both trembling when John rolls on the condom and takes hold of Sherlock’s hips. _Slow,_ John reminds himself, _he wants it slow,_ and bites hard on his lower lip to ease into Sherlock’s lean, tight arse. “Oh,” Sherlock breathes again, and his arms curl around John’s shoulders when John bends over him and pushes deep.

Neither of them closes their eyes, even when they’re near enough for eyelashes to brush. John cradles Sherlock’s head in his palm and watches his eyes, fascinated with how usually they’re so cool and cataloguing and how different they look when filled with heat and lost in the moment. He traces the outline of Sherlock’s lips with his thumb — where all this started, he never would have let any of this happen if he weren’t so entranced with the thought of these lips stretched around his cock — and Sherlock’s gaze never leaves his as he sucks John’s thumb into his mouth.

“Christ,” John murmurs, “how are you so gorgeous?” and Sherlock gives him a teasing smile in return.

“Up,” Sherlock says and pushes on John’s hips. “I want to be on top.”

“God, yes,” John says and gets onto his back, one foot on the floor to brace himself on the slippery cushions. Sherlock climbs onto him — this flushed, trembling, man so different from his self-contained flatmate, hair wild, pale skin covered with the sheen of perspiration — and takes hold of John’s cock to guide him back into his arse. John holds Sherlock’s hips until Sherlock finds his rhythm, and then wraps a hand around Sherlock’s cock again. It makes Sherlock’s eyes grow even wider, and he curls his body over John’s, eyes fixed on his, one hand clutching the back of the couch and the other on John’s chest.

Sometimes Sherlock looks at him like an experiment, with a detached curiosity that John finds unnerving; sometimes Sherlock looks at him like a puzzle he’d like to solve; sometimes, it must be said, Sherlock looks at him like a proud parent whose child has just learned to walk.

But he’s never looked at John like this. Not like a mystery — like an answer.

John moves his hand to splay over Sherlock’s lower back and uses the other to continue stroking him, and tells him he’s beautiful, so amazing, his body is incredible and feels so good, smells so good; and finally says, with a tight fist on Sherlock’s prick and gasping for breath to get the words out, “Come for me, Sherlock, I want to see your face too.”

Sherlock’s exhales a long, “Ohhh,” as he shudders, his come hot on John’s hand and chest. His eyes are open wide and his lips are parted, and there’s a look of bliss and contentment that John has never seen on his face. Happiness is not something Sherlock does — at most he’s excited, interested, but John has never seen him like this, like he can stop searching for a while.

Sherlock is still making those lovely sighs as he rides John’s cock, hands placed on either side of John’s head. John can feel his orgasm coiling at the base of his spine and he shoves into Sherlock more urgently, holding his hips. Their faces are so close John can see every tremble of his eyelashes and the capillaries in his eyes. It’s terrifyingly intimate, to be watched so closely, and somehow John manages to keep his eyes open as he comes. He has no idea what his face does during orgasm but whatever Sherlock sees, he likes it — he breaks into a smile and nudges his lips against John’s, whispering, “You’re perfect. You’re just perfect.”

John coaxes Sherlock’s head against his neck, still gasping for breath. “Oh, my God, Sherlock,” he whispers. “Oh, my God.”

Sherlock rumbles agreeably into John’s neck, skin still damp and slick as John strokes his back. He rouses enough to say, “Didn’t you say something about takeaway?” and John bursts out laughing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has no idea what’s going on, but he does know he’s never been happier.

It was only a matter of time, John reflects, before one of them ended up handcuffed to a bed.

That first night — John doesn’t know what he expected that first night, but after they washed up and got dressed and ordered food, it was like dozens of other nights at Baker Street. The kitchen was a mess of papers and experiments, the fire crackled comfortably in the hearth, and Sherlock sat at the partner’s desk to entertain himself with answering emails and abusing the poor sods who commented on his forum.

The only difference between all the other nights and this was that John’s mouth still tasted faintly of Sherlock’s, and there were scratches from Sherlock’s nails stinging his back, and he felt far more relaxed than he had for weeks. He supposed they would talk about it sooner or later — there was no way flatmates could start sleeping together without it getting complicated fast — but it was so comfortable between them, with the fire and Sherlock reading out various comments from the forum and John’s own blog in need of updating, he didn’t bring it up.

When John got up to go to bed he hesitated, thinking he should make Sherlock the offer to join him, but he only said, “Good night, Sherlock,” and Sherlock hummed absently in response, absorbed in typing.

This meant, John was sure, that their tryst was a one-time occurrence. Sherlock lived a life of the mind, and sex, like food and sleep and socializing, only interested him when he had nothing else with which to occupy himself.

The next few weeks seemed to prove this right. Sherlock only texted John for the usual reasons, to talk about cases or to ask him to pick up something at the shops. Still, every time his phone beeped to alert him of a text John felt his face flush and his heart start to beat a little faster.

Then came the day when Sherlock texted him a blunt, “Come home and fuck me. SH,” and a few weeks after that John woke up to a text of, “I’m downstairs and naked. Where are you and why aren’t you here? SH,” and then only a few days passed when Sherlock texted him from across the room, “Take off your clothes. I want to do stuff to you. SH,” which made John laugh out loud, but he also took off his clothes.

It only happened in the sitting room, on the couch or on the floor, as if it were neutral territory. Sherlock never brought John back to his room and John never invited Sherlock to his. Afterwards, at most Sherlock would doze against John for a few minutes, and then would pull on his clothes and go back to whatever he was doing before, whether it was reading the newspaper or updating his website or making phone calls to badger Lestrade or Molly into yielding to whatever his demands were that night.

They had something like a routine now. Every few days — more often than John expected, given Sherlock’s insistence that sex was not his area — Sherlock texted John with a proposition, and John hurried to wherever Sherlock was so that they could indulge in each other. John feels a pleasant buzz throughout his skin, down to his bones, from the constant attention and satisfaction; he feels sharp mentally, attuned to Sherlock , able to follow his mental leaps and skips far better than he ever had before.

When John asks himself what exactly is going on with them, he has no answer. All he knows for certain is that he’s happier than he’d been for years, and Sherlock smiles more often.

*

And then came today.

John was on his way home when he got Sherlock’s text. He took out his phone casually, thinking it would be request for tea or to pick up Indian for supper, but what he read was, “I have stolen something from Lestrade. I’m using it on you when you get home. SH.”

John’s breath caught and he typed back quickly, “What did you steal?”

Instead of a text in response, Sherlock sent a picture — of himself, holding a pair of handcuffs.

Which is how John finds himself handcuffed to the rails in the headboard of Sherlock’s bed, naked, trying not to strain against the cuffs as Sherlock kisses and licks his body. Sherlock is still dressed — he doesn’t like to take off his clothes until he’s good and ready, which is just fine with John because that means he feels the friction of Sherlock’s shirt and trousers against him, a sensation that’s even more carnal than bare skin. John likes to shove his hands into Sherlock’s hair, stroke his neck and narrow shoulders, so not being able to touch him makes John dig his fingers into his own palms and try to channel his frustrated desire into something productive, like moaning in encouragement.

Sherlock likes to hear him. Sherlock will whisper, “Make some noise,” in John’s ear or against his neck, the request making John shudder and groan louder every time, but he doesn’t need to ask. The more he sucks John’s nipples, the harder he sucks John’s cock, even if he rubs the sole of John’s foot the right way, John lets out a groan or a shout or a shuddering sigh.

Sherlock holds John by the hips and John lets his legs sprawl open. John has topped Sherlock whenever he’s asked, and Sherlock has used his fingers and tongue on John. But tonight Sherlock has a look, a gleam in his eye and a curl to his lips that tell John he’s interested in more than mild bondage tonight.

He says quietly, his hands on John’s hips, “Do you trust me?”

“Completely,” John says, quietly too, trembling.

“I want to open you up,” Sherlock whispers. “I want to be deep inside you. Deeper than this.” He holds up his hand and regards his fingers. John shivers, remembering when they’ve been inside him, making him crazy as they twisted and stroked. “Would you let me do that?”

“Yes. God, Sherlock, yes.” He calms his breath, preparing himself. It’s been a long time, years, since he’s let anyone do this — but this is Sherlock. John wouldn’t deny him anything.

Sherlock bends over John and kisses him. He doles out kisses as if he has an allotment and doesn’t want to go through them too quickly; John hoards them, tries to make them last as long as possible, tries to claim as many as he can get. He groans against Sherlock’s mouth and wraps his legs around Sherlock’s slender hips, pulling Sherlock closer the best he can. Sherlock settles onto him, elbows bent by John’s head, and they kiss, wet and deep.

John whispers, “Sherlock,” and Sherlock rests his nose against John’s neck before pushing himself up. He hunts among the bottles and books on his nightstand, but instead of the bottle of lubricant John expects he gets the key to the handcuffs and unlocks them. John lowers his arms and Sherlock rubs his wrists.

“I’d like you to touch me now.”

John smiles and draws his fingers over Sherlock’s, over his hands and down his wrists. Sherlock’s wrists have always fascinated him. He pushes back Sherlock’s cuff and scrapes his teeth over one to feel Sherlock’s pulse, his eyes on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock exhales with a shudder, eyes fluttering closed, and without opening them he places John’s hands on his shirt front. John undoes the buttons and sits up so he can kiss Sherlock’s fine skin and suck his nipples, and when Sherlock makes an impatient noise and tugs on his hair John undoes his trousers and pushes them off. His boxer shorts are dark purple this time, silky and soft, and John bunches them in his hand before he yanks them off.

Sherlock’s body is long and slender and pale all over, from the lean muscles in his arms to his endless legs, and when John touches him he expects Sherlock’s skin to feel cool, like a statue.

Instead he’s warm. He’s so warm.

“On your side,” Sherlock whispers and kisses John’s ear. John nods and moves onto his side, facing the window that looks out onto the street. He wonders, as Sherlock’s fingers glide down his back and between his cheeks, if Sherlock ever lies here and looks up at the stars, or if the view is just another thing Sherlock denies himself.

And then he tilts back his head to touch Sherlock’s cheek with his temple as Sherlock’s slick fingers work inside him and all thought flees.

Sherlock is gentle when he wraps one arm around John’s waist and the other across his chest. He kisses the side of John’s neck and whispers, “Tell me if it’s too much,” as he opens John’s legs with one of his and pushes into him.

John reaches back to clutch Sherlock’s hip — his breath catches his chest and he gasps, “ _Fuck_ ,” causing Sherlock’s hips to still. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” John whispers, “don’t stop,” and Sherlock kisses his shoulder and doesn’t stop.

As good as it feels — and it does feel good, once Sherlock finds his rhythm and the right angle, and his big beautiful hands stroke John’s skin and his lips brush John’s shoulder and neck — John takes Sherlock’s hip again and gasps, “Wait, stop,” and Sherlock stops, panting against his neck.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” John assures him. “I just like it better when I can see you. Please.”

Sherlock kisses him and pulls out, and John rolls onto his back. Sherlock gets onto his knees, frowning as he studies John’s body. “Sex from behind is supposed to be easier on an inexperienced bottom.”

“This inexperienced bottom wants to see your face.”

Sherlock smiles the hesitant half-smile that John always wants to kiss, and pulls John’s legs up against his chest to tilt up his hips. John wraps his hands around Sherlock’s upper arms and groans as Sherlock pushes into him again.

John tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and pulls him down, and nips his lower lip before sweeping his tongue over it. Sherlock makes a surprised noise but doesn’t pull away — he places his hands flat on the mattress and kisses John, his hips moving fast and purposeful, his tongue tasting John’s mouth carefully and then probing deep.

He pushes himself up and John cradles his face, thumbs brushing over Sherlock’s impossible cheekbones. “Sherlock,” John whispers and raises his head to kiss him, smiling as Sherlock sighs against his lips. That breathtaking open look comes over his face as his chest hitches, and John gives him light, teasing kisses as he curls his hands around Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock body’s shudders and he groans, that low, drawn-out, “Ohh,” that makes John shiver, and he lowers John’s legs as he gasps for breath. John holds Sherlock’s head to his chest, trembling and trying not to hump his still-hard cock against Sherlock’s stomach.

Sherlock raises his head and gives John a promising smile, and then slides down his body. “Oh, God,” John breathes, grasping Sherlock’s shoulders, and he has to close his eyes as Sherlock’s tongue bathes his cock in slow, lingering licks. Sherlock’s hand joins his tongue, stroking the shaft in a firm and tight grip. “Sherlock,” John moans in warning, “Sherlock!” and he opens his eyes in time to see Sherlock’s long fingers stroking his cock, tongue dancing over the head, and John clutches at the sheets and shouts as he comes.

Sherlock gets onto his knees and slowly wipes his lips, his gaze never leaving John’s. “I think I’d like to do that again sometime.” John can only hum feebly in response, and Sherlock chuckles and flops onto his back. He stretches his long limbs with a deep sigh. “It’s astonishing how good I feel after sex with you.”

“Astonishing,” John mumbles, stretching too. He’s going to feel this tomorrow. Quite possibly for a few days after, too. “Truly astonishing.”

Sherlock slants a look at him. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“No. Feel too good.”

“And tired,” Sherlock observes. “You’re neglecting your pronouns.”

“Too tired for pronouns.” He smiles.

“And yet I did all the work and I feel fine. Energized, one might say.”

“Well, you’re weird.”

Sherlock harrumphs and pulls up the duvet, wrapping most of it around himself. John chuckles and tugs on it until Sherlock relents and lets him get under, too. It’s warm and smells of Sherlock’s skin, and John presses his nose to Sherlock’s chest and inhales.

“Weird but brilliant,” he amends.

Sherlock’s hand rakes through John’s hair. “All right,” he says simply and holds John’s head to his chest.

It feels perfectly natural, to be held like this, and John closes his eyes. He’s dozed on the couch to the sound of Sherlock typing or tinkering in the kitchen, but never curled up against Sherlock’s body and fallen asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

When he wakes he’s disoriented. The room is dark except for the glow of a computer screen and Sherlock is reading beside him, frowning at the computer in a way that precursors a declaration of “Wrong!”

John sits up slowly, blinking and yawning, and says, “Sorry,” as he starts to get out of bed.

Sherlock looks at him, a faintly surprised look on his face. “For what?”

John gestures to him. “Sleeping on you. Sleeping here. Sleeping at all when you’d probably rather I left.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looks back at the computer. “You can stay if you like.”

John furrows his eyebrows, then nods. “All right. Thanks.” He lies down again. The mattress is firm under his back, and the sheets are soft — cotton, nothing frivolous like satin, but still a pleasure to the skin. John bunches the pillow under his head and watches Sherlock’s profile. It’s much better than being banished away, and he wants to tell Sherlock this — that he wants to stay, he never wants to leave.

But all he says is, “It’s a nice bed. Very comfortable.”

“Hm,” says Sherlock, already engrossed in something else. John nods, conversation closed, and falls asleep to the click of Sherlock’s computer keys.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries an experiment.

John is eating lunch (apple, roast beef sandwich, crisps, with his third cup of coffee of the day) and fidgeting with his phone when he has a thought. When he and Sherlock have had sex, it's always been Sherlock's idea, which has been fine with John, as Sherlock is neither a demanding nor a neglectful partner. John hasn't initiated sex because he simply hasn't needed to -- whenever he starts feeling restless and hungry, Sherlock knows, the same way he knows every damn thing, and John gets one of those texts that make him shiver and flush with anticipation.

And while John is not quite to that point yet -- not quite remembering the way Sherlock's hair catches on his fingers, not quite curling his toes inside his shoes whenever he hears Sherlock punching the velar plosives in his baritone voice, not quite imagining the taste and texture of Sherlock's skin under his tongue -- he is _near_ it, near enough to be aware of what he's not thinking.

Which, of course, leads him to thinking about it.

He toys with his phone as he eats, pressing the button for texts and then coming back to the home screen, and then finally John wipes his hands clean on the paper bag he used to carry his lunch and types, "What are you doing tonight?"

His thumb circles the send button a few times, until he tells himself he's being ridiculous and clicks the button.

His phone buzzes a few minutes later. "Incubating microbes. SH."

John types, "Want to do something more interesting?"

"Nothing more interesting to do. SH."

John hesitates before typing, "You could do me instead," and sets down his phone. It's a ridiculous thing to say and Sherlock would be perfectly right to say No on the grounds of John being a terrible flirt, particularly over the phone, but still John is hopeful Sherlock will take it in the spirit in which it's intended.

Sherlock answers more quickly than John expects: "You are far more interesting than microbes. SH."

"Then we're on for tonight?"

"We're on. SH."

"I'm looking forward to it. I'll be home soon," John promises and puts his phone away.

*

"I wasn't sure you'd say yes," John says as he enters the flat and takes off his jacket. Sherlock is reclining on the couch, his feet bare and his sleeves rolled up, and he puts down his book and watches John with a lazy smile.

"Why wouldn't I?" Sherlock's fingertips trace the buttons down his shirt, and he pops one open, flirtatious as a burlesque dancer.

John watches Sherlock's fingers and licks his lips. "This entire, er, endeavor has been your idea." He meets Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock's hand pauses. "Yes. And?"

"And I … and I wasn't sure you'd say yes."

Sherlock has this particular smile, a small and private one that John thinks he isn't even aware of using. He's smiling it as he says, crossing the room to meet John at the door, "Because you think my attraction to you isn't as strong as my interest in my work?"

"The moment Lestrade calls," John murmurs, backing up against the door, "you lose interest in having sex."

"I never shag while I'm working." Again, that small peculiar smile as he unbuttons John's shirt.

"Only when you're bored." Sherlock hums as he stoops to kiss John's neck, his teeth dragging over John's artery, his fingers rubbing John's skin in tiny unselfconscious movements. John whispers, "It's better than shooting the wall," and Sherlock laughs.

*

They move upstairs to John's bed. It amuses John that it's taken them this long to get here, while they've used the sofa, the door, Sherlock's bed, the kitchen table and the floor many times. Sherlock gives him a hopeful look as they climb the stairs, but Mrs. Hudson is in tonight and John doesn't want to risk it.

Sherlock reclines on John's bed, beautiful against John's heather-grey sheets. John lies beside him and runs a hand over his soft white shirt, and Sherlock takes John's face and kisses John carefully. He still kisses John like he's not certain he'll be welcomed, no matter how often John kisses him or how reverently John kisses him back.

"You know," John murmurs, "if you ever want to just snog, we can."

Sherlock's nimble fingers pluck at John's buttons. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because sometimes it's good to just kiss." He kisses Sherlock again, his hand on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock tugs on him and shifts under him, trying to get him to move faster and push harder, but John keeps a leg between Sherlock's and a hand over his shirt, and kisses him, slow and deep and deliberate.

After several minutes pass with nothing but the wet sounds of kisses, Sherlock whispers, "All right, you're right, I like this," and John chuckles.

"I thought you might." He hesitates. "If you're ever not in the mood, if you ever just want to be close but not have sex, it's fine. We can just snog or just … be. Together. Um."

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "Is that what you want tonight, John?"

"No," John admits, "but if you weren't actually in the mood and said yes just to humor me -- well, you don't need to."

"You are so careful with me," Sherlock observes and puts his hands on John's cheeks. "I'm not sure why that is, but I like it." He rubs John's face, his expression thoughtful, and John closes his eyes and parts his lips as Sherlock's fingers pass over his mouth. "I find it interesting that you have never said no to me."

"I won't," John says. "You're far too --" he rejects _beautiful_ and _sexy_ , those words are far too commonplace to describe Sherlock -- and says, "undeniable for that."

"Undeniable," Sherlock murmurs, and then inhales sharply as John sucks his fingertips into his mouth. "I think you need to take off your clothes now." He moves his hands down to John's shirt buttons again. John does likewise, kissing Sherlock's neck and chest, and slides down his body to kiss his stomach and hips. Sherlock raises his hips and John yanks down his trousers and takes Sherlock's prick into his mouth.

Sherlock groans, a sound that's deep and deliciously obscene. His back arches and he throws back his head, and John places a hand on his hip to feel him move. There's something feline and sinuous about Sherlock's body, particularly when he's like this, on the edge of losing control. John sucks him until Sherlock's legs tremble and his toes curl, and then pulls off and moves up Sherlock's body to whisper in his ear, "Undeniable. Incontrovertible. Irrefutable."

Sherlock moans even louder and clutches at him. "Oh, more of that."

Only Sherlock would find vocabulary arousing. John whispers, "Your epidermis is delectable," but he's finding words rather difficult at the moment so he just kisses across Sherlock's collar bones and licks the base of his throat.

Sherlock pulls away enough to wrestle himself out of his trousers. John pushes off his own and kisses him, and when Sherlock breaks it off he buries his face in John's neck and pushes his hips against John's. "Now," he whispers into John's skin, "now, John."

"You're not half ready," John whispers in protest. Sherlock grabs his hand and sucks on his fingers, wetting them thoroughly and making John shudder.

Sherlock spits out John's fingers. "There. Get me ready." He opens his legs, hands wrapped around his thighs.

John licks his lips and kneels between Sherlock's legs. He takes hold of Sherlock's thigh and pushes his fingers into Sherlock, slowly as Sherlock's eyes close and his breath quickens. He reaches back to grab the headboard as John opens him, and his fingers scrabble at the smooth wood until he gets a good grip on the edge.

This is John's favorite Sherlock variation. He's fascinated by brilliant Sherlock, smirks at snarky Sherlock, tolerates moody Sherlock -- but this Sherlock, the wild-eyed, flushed and gasping Sherlock, is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen.

When John is satisfied that Sherlock can take him -- and Sherlock's pulling on his arms and whining with need -- John pulls out his fingers and lines up their hips. Sherlock drapes his legs over John's shoulders as soon as John rolls on the condom. John pushes into him slowly, their bodies folded together and their eyes fixed on each other's. John slides his arms under Sherlock to pull him closer, and kisses him, deep and hungry, as his hips thrust. Sherlock's groans are muffled by John's mouth, and he grabs John's arse and digs his fingers into John's flesh.

It happens fast -- it's been that kind of night, it would seem, when they are both strangely frantic and wanting. Much sooner, much faster than John expected, Sherlock cries out and wetness coats John's stomach. He thinks, _He wants me, he wants me as much as I want him, he wants me,_ as he groans Sherlock's name and comes.

His head drops to Sherlock's chest and he gasps for breath. Sherlock wraps his arms around John's neck and his legs go loosely around John's hips, and they doze, warm, breathing together.

*

When John cracks an eye open the room is sunset-gold, and he can see dust motes floating in a shaft of sunshine. Sherlock strokes John's back in lazy figure-eights. "Oh, good, you're awake," Sherlock murmurs.

"No, I'm not," John mumbles into Sherlock's skin and licks up a drop of perspiration.

"Should we have tea? I think I'm going to be hungry soon."

"Tea," John agrees, but neither of them move.

Minutes pass -- John has no idea how many, he suspects he may have dozed off again -- and then Sherlock says, "So, about this endeavor," and John looks up.

Cautiously, "Yes?"

"You find it a mystery." Sherlock is calm, as he so often is.

"It's not your area, remember?"

" _Girlfriends_ are not my area. I think I've proved by now that boyfriends have occasionally wandered into the neighborhood."

"Such a welcoming neighborhood it is, too," John murmurs and kisses down Sherlock's stomach. "Tell me something."

"The average human eyeball weighs a quarter of an ounce."

John rests his chin on Sherlock's breastbone and says patiently, "Something about you. Answer a question."

Sherlock sighs. "Very well. What is it?"

"Your first boyfriend."

"That's not a question."

"What was he like? How did you meet? How old were you?"

"That's several questions."

"Sherlock."

"John."

"Just tell me about him, would you?"

Sherlock sighs with exaggerated patience and folds his hands behind his head. "Sixteen, at uni, he was … flattered."

John props himself up on his elbow. "Flattered?"

"By the attention. By my crush on him. By the fact that he was my first kiss, my first everything." Sherlock shrugs. "Flattered."

"And you had a crush on him."

"I fancied myself in love."

"Were you?"

"I don't know," says Sherlock quietly and stares at the ceiling. "He made … he made the world less noisy. I wanted him for that. I thought that meant it was love. I wanted to hear everything he had to say, I wanted to tell him everything I knew, I loved everything about him from his toenail polish to his book collection. We had sex because he wanted to and he expected me to want it, too, I suppose. I liked what I got the rest of the time." He pauses again. "I used to lie with my head in his lap and he'd stroke my hair, and I thought it meant he loved me too."

"What happened? Why did it end?"

Again Sherlock pauses, eyes fixed on the ceiling. When he speaks again his tone is even, almost unemotional. "He had a girlfriend at home. I didn't know about her, of course, and she only knew about me as one of his friends. He finished at uni -- he was in his third year when we met -- and went home to Manchester, and invited me to visit him one weekend. I thought we'd spend the weekend shagging. I was actually looking forward to it, and he sounded so excited that I was coming to see him. But instead his girlfriend was there and I slept on the couch, and when I confronted him about it he said he thought I knew we were just having fun."

John closes his eyes and whispers, "Sherlock, God," and lays his head on Sherlock's chest.

"I did the only thing I could do," Sherlock finishes in that same even tone. "Went back to uni and shagged as many blokes as would have me."

John looks up at him again. "I'm having a hard time imagining you, slutting it up."

Sherlock smiles and looks away. "I was an excellent slut. You've certainly enjoyed what I learned from the experience."

"So then what happened?" John asks, not acknowledging that yes, he has enjoyed the fruits of Sherlock's slut period. He lays his head on Sherlock's chest again, an arm across his waist. "When did you decide you didn't want a lover anymore?"

"I discovered cocaine," Sherlock says calmly. "You'd be astonished to learn what it does to the libido."

John nods, unsurprised. "I know what cocaine does to the libido. It's not a wise cure for a broken heart, either."

Sherlock huffs. "My heart wasn't broken. It was a life lesson."

"All right, then what did you learn, Sherlock?"

"Only fools do it for love," says Sherlock and John lifts his head to look at him again.

"So you've never fallen in love since."

"I'm still not sure I fell in love then. Could we go back to snogging? I like snogging."

"Yes," John says softly, "we can go back to snogging," and kisses him fiercely. He pauses only to ask, "He never kissed you much, did he?"

"No," says Sherlock, "none of them did," and John kisses him even harder.

End ch.4.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have had many conversations since they began this affair, but there's one more they haven't had.

There are certain conversations that can only be had while naked and damp, pressed against each other. John and Sherlock have had them, conversations spoken in soft tones, near-whispers even though there's no one to disturb or overhear. Sherlock likes to touch John after sex, likes to draw his fingers down John's chest and tell John about past adventures, about the scars he acquired before John came into his life, or the stories he can read from John's skin. They knew each other well before this, but John thinks they're starting to know each other completely from these nights filled with soft laughter and comforting touch.

But there's one conversation that they haven't had.

It's four months since they started what John thinks of as The Endeavor, and while Sherlock told the story of his first lover (and the shags who followed, though John refuses to think of them as people who loved Sherlock) easily enough, John has yet to follow suit.

It's not that he doesn't want to tell Sherlock about it, he does. Telling Sherlock his stories feels a bit pointless, because most of the time Sherlock knows them anyway -- he gathers information from the scars on John's body, the mud on his shoes, the way he trims his fingernails. The fact that Sherlock has never said, "Your first kiss was a boy, you've slept with more women than men but you have slept with several of both, and you've been deeply in love twice," suggests to John that Sherlock doesn't find it important enough to discuss.

John supposes it isn't. It has nothing to do with them, except that it brought them here.

They don't talk about this during the rest of their day, this thing between them. They don't kiss while cooking supper, they don't hold hands while walking, they don't call each other endearments. They don't even say it out loud, they don't say, "I want you tonight, sleep with me," as if saying it out loud would break it apart. They proposition each other by text message, they seduce each other with significant looks, and whenever John sleeps alone he spends half the night wondering if Sherlock wants him and just couldn't bring himself to say.

Once they're actually in bed -- or wherever, the couch or the kitchen and on one memorable occasion the loo at Antonio's, and John's shoulder bore Sherlock's teeth marks for days afterwards but he thinks it's a fair trade for not being discovered -- it's really quite easy. They want each other, they're so good together, but words only come easily afterwards, not before.

*

It's one of those cases Mycroft tosses Sherlock's way, involving stolen documents and the broken heel on a pair of women's shoes, and John knows that once it's solved there will be several more thousand pounds in his bank account than there are today. (Sherlock refuses to accept payment for anything he does for Mycroft, and Mycroft pretends to comply. He slipped John checks until Sherlock discovered it and threw a tantrum, so now Mycroft just deposits the payments directly into John's account. John has no idea how. It's one of those things he figures it's better not to ask.)

And in the way that so often happens with Sherlock's cases, Mycroft's problem has intersected with one of Lestrade's, and now they're in a dank warehouse, surrounded by police, and Sherlock is kneeling over the body while Lestrade, Donovan and John look on. Anderson has been ordered to turn his back, which he has complainingly done, but his huffing is the only sound except for drips and the occasional rattle of wind against the metal walls.

Sherlock inspects the man's fingernails, his pockets. He pushes back the man's hair and frowns at the sight of his forehead. He picks up the man's feet and looks at the soles of his shoes with his tiny magnifying glass. He pushes gently on the man's stomach.

John can almost hear Sherlock's mind ticking through clues and hints and possibilities, and it's hard not to feel proud of him -- hard not to shout as he unabashedly watches Sherlock's arse through his coat, _That's mine, that's all mine, I can have that whenever I want._

(Well, except for tonight. There won't be sex tonight, just like there won't be any food or sleep unless John insists on it. Even then, John will eat a solitary meal and sleep alone.)

He feels someone's eyes on him and looks up to see Donovan watching him, something like confusion on her face. He wonders if she noticed where his eyes were, maybe even the slight blush in his cheeks.

(Because in watching Sherlock he starts thinking about the last time they had sex -- three days ago, on the couch, Sherlock's body long and gorgeous under his as he rode Sherlock's cock. He hadn't wanted to be on top at first, he'd been embarrassed, tried to get Sherlock to close the blinds and turn off the lights, and Sherlock said, "Why?" as if he truly didn't understand. John suspected he didn't -- Sherlock had never been scarred, smaller than his comrades and soft in the middle, but as Sherlock ran his hands over John's body and said, "I want you, John, let me look at you," none of those things seemed quite so important anymore. He was the lover of a beautiful man. Nothing else mattered.)

John smiles uncomfortably and Donovan's eyes narrow before she looks away. _She knows_ , thinks John, and has another flash of memory -- Sarah, over coffee, while he was still bruised and sore from the pool explosion, saying gently, _I can't compete, John. I think we both know where your interests really lie._ At the time he didn't -- or if he did, he wasn't ready to admit it -- but he could see it now. She'd known, before either he or Sherlock knew it for themselves.

And now Donovan suspects, if she hasn't figured it out entirely, and John imagines that she and Anderson will have a good laugh over it later, pitying him for being seduced by the freak.

He refocuses on Sherlock, who's finally getting to his feet as he tells Lestrade, "It was the son."

"He died of heart failure," said Lestrade, looking at John because that had been his diagnosis not ten minutes before.

"Yes, he did," says Sherlock, "but it's the son's fault." He kneels again and picks up the victim's left hand to study his fingers once more.

"Are we done with this circus?" says Donovan. "Can we get down to some real police work now?"

Sherlock drops the victim's hand. "Wedding band," he says succinctly and strides out of the warehouse. Lestrade and the rest of them look at John as if they expect him to translate. He just smiles again and trots after Sherlock.

"There was a clue in the man's wedding band?" he says when he catches up to Sherlock, whose arm is already raised to summon a cab.

"There was no wedding band, John." A cab pulls up and Sherlock gets in. John frowns at him before he follows, and Sherlock is tapping away on his mobile as the cab pulls away from the curb.

"So," John tries, "whoever killed him took the wedding band."

"His son took the wedding band." Sherlock continues typing. "The victim died of heart failure, correct?"

"It would take an autopsy to be certain, but that's my initial diagnosis, yes."

"The son met his father at the warehouse, likely under false pretenses, to confront him about his infidelities. When the father had a heart attack, the son did nothing. He didn't kill his father, but he let him die."

"Cold," John murmurs and looks out the window. "He's still culpable. That's criminal negligence."

"Not as severe a sentence as murder, no matter how cold-blooded," says Sherlock, absorbed in his phone.

"And the wedding band?"

"There are two reasons why people take off their wedding rings: to protect it or to hide it. Our victim was the latter."

"And," John says slowly, "the son took the ring to protect it."

"For his mother, I assume." He dials a number and delivers his findings to Mycroft in a near-monotone, not even bothering with their usual bickering. Once he's disconnected, he puts his phone away in his coat's inner pocket and falls silent.

John is used to Sherlock's silences by now, but the silence on the way home tonight seems different somehow. Sherlock is … subdued. That's the word for it. He's subdued.

John watches Sherlock as the taxi carries them through the streets of London. Sherlock doesn't look any different than any number of similar nights to this, except perhaps some weariness around his eyes. John reaches over and touches Sherlock's hand. Sherlock glances at him and moves his hand a fraction. John sighs and takes his hand back.

*

They don't talk about it, but John thinks about it constantly, asking himself what is "it," exactly? He still isn't sure.

At its simplest, it's sex whenever he wants, however he wants, without strings. Sherlock likes doing what John asks, or at least he never says no.

There's a lot that John likes. He likes to be naked while Sherlock gives him blowjobs fully dressed. He likes to thrust his hands into Sherlock's hair and watch that amazing mouth slide up and down his cock, lips reddening from friction, his skin slick from pre-come and Sherlock's saliva. He likes to spread his legs wide and arch his hips, to let Sherlock lick his balls or even his hole -- the sight of Sherlock's dark hair against his thigh is fascinating, and there are times when John wishes they had a camera or a mirror or _something_ so that he could watch Sherlock's tongue flicking inside him.

He likes it when Sherlock leaves on his boxer shorts while they rub off against each other. They clutch at each other, fingers digging into backs and shoulders, and as much as John loves kissing him while they thrust he also loves to just watch Sherlock's face, his eyes, the way he licks his lips. If Sherlock comes in his shorts, John likes to pull them down and lick him clean.

He likes to touch Sherlock after sex. He likes the luster of Sherlock's skin when he's still damp with perspiration. He likes the softness of Sherlock's mouth after he's been kissed again and again. He likes to run his fingers through Sherlock's damp hair and smooth it against his skull. He likes the lazy way Sherlock blinks at him, how Sherlock will kiss him with his eyelashes if John presses his face to Sherlock's cheek. He likes Sherlock's arm around him, tracing patterns into his skin.

He likes to kiss Sherlock. He likes to hold Sherlock's face and kiss him slowly. He likes to suck Sherlock's neck, to lick the birthmark on his throat. He likes the feel of Sherlock's tongue against his, the heat of his mouth, the slide of his lips. He likes the way Sherlock laughs as he as wipes saliva from his chin.

John has no idea what Sherlock likes. Well, he likes words, John knows that, but not so much talking dirty as just talking, which John can't always do in the throes of passion. And he likes being fucked, or at least he never says he doesn't like it, though since Sherlock told him the story about his first boyfriend John has wondered if Sherlock only likes it because he thinks he should.

John is fairly certain Sherlock likes kissing. He always kisses back.

But that's the Endeavor at its simplest. And things are not always simple between them -- are rarely simple at all.

*

John has never been one for nervous chatter but he can't stop himself as he hangs his jacket and pulls off his jumper. "You were brilliant tonight, Sherlock. You always are but that was just--" He goes into the kitchen and starts the kettle. "Do you want tea? I want tea. I'm too keyed up to sleep."

There's no answer from Sherlock, and John pokes his head out of the kitchen to see him standing in front of the window, still wearing his coat.

"Sherlock?"

"John, I want to ask you a question," says Sherlock without turning around.

"All right." He crosses the sitting room to join Sherlock, and looks out the window as well. Baker Street is quiet tonight, few people out, a fine mist hanging around the street lamps from the earlier rain.

Sherlock is quiet for a while longer, and finally says, "What is it about sex, John?"

John looks up at him. "What do you mean?"

"What is it about sex that drives people to hurt each other so?"

John inhales slowly as he thinks. "I think … it's the desire to feel. Sex forces you to feel, it's so immediate and raw. Lust, desire, love, pain … it's irresistible. It's easy to get hooked on such strong emotions. Or to feel desired, to feel loved."

"You associate sex with more than mere physical pleasure."

"I suppose I do."

Sherlock looks at him for the first time since they arrived home. "Is that why you like it?"

"Yes," John says simply.

"You like feeling desired."

"Yes."

Their gaze holds for several seconds longer than necessary, and then Sherlock says, "I don't wish to have sex tonight."

John looks up at him sharply as half a dozen questions leap to mind. He says, "I'm not surprised."

"But I would like to -- that is --" He stops and bites his lip, teeth sinking into the pink flesh in a way that makes John's breath catch. John doesn't speak or move -- he's never seen Sherlock flustered, and this is definitely flustered. Sherlock inhales as John waits, and Sherlock says, "You said once it was good to just be close. Do you remember?"

"I remember."

"I would like to be close tonight."

"Sure, all right. That sounds … good. Do you want tea?"

"No. Thank you. I'm … actually tired," Sherlock says in a puzzled sort of tone, and John almost laughs.

"Again, not surprised. You've been on the go for days. Your bed or mine?"

"Yours. You changed the sheets two days ago. The scent will be pleasant."

John does laugh this time, and he pats Sherlock's back before moving back to the kitchen. "I do want tea, so I'm going to have a cup. You do whatever you like and I'll meet you in bed in a few minutes."

He glances back at Sherlock and it seems to him that Sherlock is not holding himself quite so stiffly.

John forces himself to let the kettle boil and the tea steep, and he drinks it slowly, giving it the proper attention. All the while he can hear Sherlock moving about, the rattles and rustles that mean he's getting ready to sleep. John's teacup is almost empty when he sees Sherlock go up the stairs in his blue dressing gown.

John smiles to himself. He rinses his cup and leaves it in the sink, turns out all the lights and locks the door, and climbs the stairs as well.

Sherlock is on the far side of the bed, the duvet pulled up to his chin like a frightened virgin on her wedding night. It's absurd, of course, they've sprawled across this bed in wanton abandon, but John doesn't point this out. It's something new, to go to bed together and merely sleep, and he doesn't want to spook Sherlock.

He goes about his routine -- teeth, face, medication -- and gets into bed. Sherlock is still curled up as if trying to take as little room as possible, and tenses when John reaches for his shoulder.

"Sherlock," John says, "it's difficult to be close when you don't stop flinching."

"Sorry. Yes." He unclenches enough to ease against John, and John decides there's only one solution to this. He maneuvers Sherlock between his legs and tucks Sherlock against him. Sherlock sighs and lets his face rest against John's neck. His arms wind around John's chest. John eases them back against the pillows, his hand combing soothingly through Sherlock's hair.

It's warm and comfortable, being tangled together like this -- so warm and comfortable that John is almost asleep when Sherlock says, "Your turn."

John starts from his doze and tries to piece together whatever conversation Sherlock was having without him. "My turn for what?"

"I told you my story. You tell me yours."

"The how-I-realized-I-was-bisexual story? It's not that interesting."

Sherlock strokes John's chest in tiny rhythmic movements. "I want you to tell me. Please."

John inhales. Sherlock says please so rarely, John hates to refuse him when he does. "All right. Well. I had this friend when I was boy. His name was Frankie. It was a very intense friendship. We'd walk around with our arms around each other's shoulders, sit together whenever we could, make these plans for how we would live together when we were grown. I told my mother I was going to marry him." Sherlock huffs and John adds, "I was seven. I didn't quite understand what marriage entails, aside from living together."

"What did she do?"

"She laughed. And then told me not to tell my father."

Sherlock says softly, "What happened to him? The boy?"

John looks down at Sherlock's face, blurry and pale in the darkness. "We grew out of it. He grew out of it, anyway. I grew up a bit confused, but when I learned that you didn't have to be straight or gay, there were all sorts of other possibilities, that helped." He can feel Sherlock nodding against his shoulder in understanding, and he presses his lips to Sherlock's hair. "My first kiss was with my best mate. Andrew. We'd tell each other it was for practice but … it wasn't."

He remembers it so well, being in the room Andrew shared with his brother, the blinds drawn, giggling as they kissed on his bed until it got passionate and scary and exhilarating, and then darting apart and giggling more when Andrew's mother opened the door and said, "What are you lads doing, here in the dark?" and snapping the blinds up again.

They'd sneak off together at school, climb up to the roof and snog and talk and share stolen cigarettes. Andrew had had a narrow chest and curly brown hair, a light dusting of freckles and dark brown eyes, and no matter how polished he was at the beginning of the day he was always rumpled by the end, even if John didn't touch him. And when John did touch him, when Andrew touched John, John went about for the rest of the day with a bright feeling in his chest like nothing and no one could spoil his happiness.

"But then he found a girlfriend, and not long after, so did I," John says, remembering he's telling Sherlock a story, and Sherlock stirs in his arms. "Her name was Georgia. She liked kissing, too. We'd go dancing and bowling and to the cinema, and it was fun."

"Not intense," Sherlock says softly.

"No. No drama. Just young love."

"And then?"

"And then … We went to different universities but kept in touch, and still dated each other on holidays. She was still my girlfriend, I was still her boyfriend. But then I started med school, and that was the end of it. We loved each other, but not enough for it to survive the pressure on med students. Not many relationships do. And then I shipped out, and--" He pauses, swallows. "I'm sure you've deduced the rest."

"You found a girlfriend almost as soon as you were home," says Sherlock.

John frowns, uncertain of his tone. "You weren't looking for anything, remember?"

"I wasn't," says Sherlock and moves out John's arms. "I'm not. What are _you_ looking for, John?"

"I can't answer that."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know."

Sherlock huffs. "I know what you're looking for. A _relationship_."

John shakes his head. "No. No. I'm not."

"That girlfriend search was just a lark?" Sherlock is starting to sound annoyed.

"That girlfriend search was a kneejerk reaction."

"To what?"

John sits up and turns on the bedside lamp. He gets out of bed and goes to his dresser, while Sherlock watches him, his eyebrows furrowed. John takes out a box, and from the box he takes a photograph. He gets back into bed and gives the picture to Sherlock.

"Your medical unit?" Sherlock says, still furrowed.

John points to the faces in the picture. "That's me, of course. And that," he points to another face, "is Stewart Radcliffe. My partner. My boyfriend."

Sherlock looks up at John, his hold on the picture becoming something more gentle.

"He was wonderful," John says. "There was no drama with him, either, since there was enough going on around us. He was funny and brash and gentle, and I loved him very much."

Sherlock says softly, "How did he die?"

John has to pause a moment. He can remember that, too, waking up in the hospital with his body screaming with pain and seeing his friends, the doctors he'd been serving with for months, their faces so filled with sorrow that he didn't even need to hear the words. "The same attack that wounded me."

Sherlock gives him back the picture wordlessly, and after John puts it away again and gets back into bed, he pulls John to him and kisses his shoulder. John expects there to be more questions but Sherlock just holds him until he falls asleep.

*

It feels like some sort of miracle that Sherlock is still with him in the morning, and John is treated to the rare sight of Sherlock sleeping. His lips are slightly parted and his fingers are curled, and his dark lashes are beautiful contrast against his skin.

John leans his head on his hand and watches Sherlock sleep, the slight shifts and murmurs that Sherlock makes. He thinks about the conversation they had last night, the story he told. About Stewart.

It isn't that he hasn't thought about Stewart, because he has, but it's troubling to realize that he thinks about Stewart less and less every day. Sherlock is too big and vibrant and _there_ to allow room for many others, even in memory.

The two of them can't be more different, Stewart and Sherlock -- Stewart had been gregarious and ruddy, a singer of drinking songs, with heavy muscular legs and thick fingers. John only has to close his eyes to see him, his big reassuring smile as he patched up patients, his hands gentle with all those frightened young men and women, the image of reassurance and authority.

Yet Stewart, whom he had loved, pales in comparison to Sherlock, about whom he isn't sure what he feels at all.

When Sherlock speaks it startles John so much his head falls off his hand. "John, I've been thinking."

"Oh?" John takes a pillow and bunches it under his head. "What about?"

Sherlock doesn't open his eyes, but he does fold his hands on his chest. "About what you said -- that you like sex because it makes you feel desired."

"It's a bit more complicated than that," John begins, but Sherlock just goes on over him.

"And you have been desired by several people, several different kinds of people. Some of them have even loved you."

"You make it sound so impossible," says John dryly and Sherlock slants a look at him.

"Don't be nonsensical, John. Of course you've been loved. You don't make it difficult, I'm sure."

"I was under the impression you think only fools fall in love."

"I do. And yet people do it, nonetheless." He pauses. "It's difficult to compartmentalize everything you make me experience. I would die for you, but that was true even before we started our extracurricular relationship."

"I know, Sherlock."

"Yet I also like you. Enjoying your company is … novel. That you enjoy my company, even more so."

"I'm never bored," John says quietly, smiling.

"You prefer there not to be drama."

"Not in my relationships, no. In my life, that I don't seem to mind so much."

Sherlock turns his head to look at John. His voice is flat. "Someday you're going to want more than what I'm capable of giving."

John shakes his head. "Sherlock, I'm -- _happier_ , much happier than I've been for a very long time. Surely you understand you have everything to do with that."

"Do I?" Sherlock says, his face more vulnerable and naked that John has seen it other than the brink of orgasm, and John takes hold of Sherlock's jaw and kisses him.

"Yes," he says firmly, "and whatever you think I'm lacking, stop. What we've got is good. It's a bit strange, but it's good."

"For now."

John sighs, exasperated. "What do you want me to say? No, I won't? Yes, I will? I don't know what the future's going to bring, but you and I -- we're fine. We're good. If you're unhappy, tell me, but I don't think you are. You're just uncertain and you don't like being uncertain, so be certain that I want you."

Sherlock studies him. "Should we have sex now?"

John starts to smile. "Do you want to?"

Sherlock slowly shakes his head. "No. I don't feel particularly desirable."

"All right." He reaches over to play with Sherlock's hair. "When you do, though, rest assured that I desire you."

Sherlock closes his eyes and moves his head to rest it on John's shoulder. John goes on playing with his hair.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Sherlock is the ocean, then John is more than willing to jump in. Maybe even drown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: References to child abuse.

One by one, their unwritten, unspoken rules are being broken.

It's a subtle thing. They still don't act like lovers in public or in private, at least not in the expected ways. There are no nicknames (John tries "Sherl" once and Sherlock gives him the same Glare of Death he gives to Mycroft) and there's no hand-holding or walking with arms around each other's waists. They still introduce each other as "my flatmate" or "my friend."

But there is "we." "Do we want Chinese or Italian for supper tonight?" "Do we want to go to the cinema tomorrow?" "We're getting to bed early tonight -- we're both exhausted." "What happened to all the milk we bought last Tuesday?" "We could try the new pub, Brewster's? We've heard good things about it."

They have always been close, the way only two solitary beings who suddenly find their perfect match can be, but still it startles John when he realizes how he's stopped thinking of them as "Sherlock and I" and just thinks of them as "we."

The physicality of their relationship is changing too, slowly, simply. Sherlock, no matter how often he insists his body is to be utilized and nothing more, is a surprisingly sensual person. It's evident in the clothes he wears and sheets he sleeps on; even more so in the slow explorations he gives John's body with just his fingertips and the way he purrs and relaxes when John does to the same.

They're sleeping together regularly now. Not having sex regularly -- that is as dependent on Sherlock's moods and level of boredom as it has ever been -- just sleeping, Sherlock sprawled over most of the bed unless he drapes himself over John like another blanket. Sherlock likes closeness -- he asks, with surprising shyness, "Can we just be together tonight?" and John always tells him yes.

Even when they don't do more than a lazy snog, Sherlock looks satisfied and John sleeps more easily than he does when he's alone.

*

John discovers, quite by accident, that when Sherlock is in one of his moods -- flouncing about in his dressing gown and criticizing everything from the weather to the grammar in John's blog -- that if he rubs Sherlock's head, fingers scraping gently over the scalp as he combs them through Sherlock's thick wild hair, that Sherlock will calm down for a while. It's like soothing an overstimulated child, John thinks, but he doesn't share that thought even when Sherlock gives him a suspicious look and demands to know what he's smiling about.

(Of course, the best cure for Sherlock's boredom is to give him a puzzle to solve, but John can't conjure those up out of nothing and he likes the occasional stretch of calm. Plus, sometimes it means getting Sherlock into bed for a lazy afternoon, and John does love Sherlock's skin when it's painted gold with sunlight.)

It's like opening a door, this discovery, and they take small and cautious steps from peaceful hair-stroking to letting ankles rest crossed over each other or knees press together, to Sherlock resting a hand on the small of John's back as they walk rather than striding ahead and expecting John to keep up.

John wonders if the hair-stroking brings back memories for Sherlock, of that first boy he loved (or sort-of loved, Sherlock refuses to give it any sort of label) who'd done the same for him, but Sherlock never balks when John says, "Come here and lay your head down, Sherlock." (If John adds anything about him being worse than a spoiled toddler, Sherlock doesn't react to that beyond a look between slitted eyelids and a grumpy grumble.)

*

Then there's the day John is reading in the armchair by the fireplace, book tilted to the window to catch the late-afternoon sun. Sherlock comes out of the kitchen where he's been working on some experiment or another, as mysterious to John as alchemy. He stretches his back and rolls his shoulders, and pauses to eye John.

"Done for the day?" John says, glancing up from the book.

"Done for now." He stands on the hearth rug, the fingers of one hand opening and closing like a nervous tic, and then lowers himself onto John's knee and lifts John's arm to lay it over his shoulders. John switches the book to his other hand and keeps his arm around Sherlock, as Sherlock curls up his long body as much as he can and lays his head in the crook of John's neck. As Sherlock breathes as slowly as if he's asleep, his hand on John's chest, John goes on reading.

What inspired this John doesn't know, and he doesn't ask. What he does know is that he likes it and he wants it to happen again.

*

And then there's this day.

John's phone beeps twice that afternoon to announce the arrival of a text. The first time John is too busy to answer it and the second, as he's waiting for the bus to take him home and half-heartedly wondering if he can afford a cab, he takes out his phone and then puts it away, utterly uninterested.

He expects the phone to beep a third time, but it does not, so John stares out the window at the passing city, and when he arrives at the Baker Street flat it's devoid of his flatmate.

It's only then, jacket tossed aside and shoes kicked off, that John checks his phone. The first is a terse, "Come home. I need you. SH," and the second is, "Where are you? SH." John types out, "I'm home now, where are you?" but then deletes it. If Sherlock is haring off after some crime or another John is simply too tired, and if Sherlock wants sex tonight -- well, John is too tired for that, too. All he wants is a cup of tea and a good night's sleep.

And a beer, but they don't keep beer in the flat. If they're feeling particularly flush they'll buy a bottle of wine to have with supper, but at the moment Sherlock's nicotine patches are the closest thing in the flat to a mind- or mood-altering substance.

John rubs his forehead and tries not to think of how tempting oblivion sounds tonight, and looks up when he hears the front door slam open and closed, followed by the quick thump of Sherlock running up the stairs.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock demands when bursts into the sitting room. "When you didn't answer my texts I went looking for you. I thought someone had taken you again."

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I was occupied."

"With what?" says Sherlock in a bewildered tone, as if he can't believe anything would be more important to John than a summons. John lifts his head enough to give him a hard look through his fingers, and Sherlock frowns in return.

"I don't want to talk about it. But I will tell you that whatever you have in mind, I'm not in the mood."

There's silence for a minute or two, long enough for John to glance up at Sherlock again. Sherlock is still standing in the doorway, as if his enormous brain doesn't know how to handle this new development. John supposes he should explain himself more but he really doesn't want to. He doesn't want to rehash his day. He doesn't want to think anymore. He wants to get those images out of his head, delete them like Sherlock says he does with things he considers unimportant; but the human mind doesn't work like that, or at least John's doesn't, not if he's to avoid the fate he's been trying so hard to avoid all of his adult life.

"You're saying no to me," Sherlock says at last, still in that bewildered tone, now slightly tinged with hurt.

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Did I do something to upset you?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"I had a bloody awful day and I'm not in the mood for -- well, anything."

Again Sherlock is silent. Sometimes John imagines Sherlock's brain like a great mass of cogs and wheels and gears, spinning, shifting, screeching to a halt in one area while another roars into life, and at times like this he can almost hear the mechanisms churning.

Finally Sherlock says, "So all this time when you've said you'll never say no to me because I'm too undeniable --"

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock!" John snaps. "This isn't about you. Not everything is about you. Sometimes I'm not in the mood. Sometimes you're not in the mood and I don't complain, but when _I'm_ not in the mood --"

"You're always in the mood."

"Well, tonight I'm not in the mood. Tonight all I want to do is forget about today. I'm going to have a bath," he decides. "That's what I need. A relaxing bath and a quiet night in." He pushes himself up from the sofa and starts for the lav, pushing past where Sherlock is still standing like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

He stops short when he hears Sherlock softly say, "Do you want me to wash your hair?"

John swivels to look at him. "What?"

"Do you want me to wash your hair?" Sherlock repeats slowly.

"What? No -- Sherlock -- I mean --"

"The last time you went to the barber's you got a shampoo along with the cut. You nearly fell asleep at the sink."

"And you want to wash my hair because--"

"Because it relaxes you," says Sherlock. "You want to relax and I want to help you." When John just looks at him, uncertain of how to take this, he adds hesitantly, "Isn't that what friends do?"

"Friends? No, Sherlock, not friends -- well, perhaps very _good_ friends, but I don't think --" Of course, Sherlock's right, it does relax him. He schedules haircuts sometimes solely for the sensation of someone else's hands in his hair while warm water rushes over his head. He sighs. "Oh, God. I don't care if it's ridiculous. I'd love for you to wash my hair."

"We are very good friends," says Sherlock, doubt still in his voice, but John is already unbuttoning his shirt as he climbs the stair. Sherlock follows, and when John glances back at him he's picked up John's abandoned shirt and folded it over his arm.

They don't speak as John starts the water running and Sherlock takes off his coat. John undresses completely, glancing frequently at Sherlock, but Sherlock strips only to his shirt sleeves and bare feet, and takes their clothes out of the lav as John sinks into the steaming water in the tub. It's so hot it's almost painful, but it's also exactly what he wanted. Every clenched muscle in his body begins to unwind, and he takes his first deep breath in hours. He lays a hand over his eyes and lets the water lap around him.

John looks up when Sherlock comes back. Sherlock pauses, meeting John's eyes only after a thorough gaze at as much of John's body as he can see through the water, and then kneels on the bath mat. He rolls up his sleeves and John watches one long, slender arm reach across him for the shampoo. He slides down the back of the tub to dunk his head, and when he comes up again Sherlock is shaking the bottle and smiling his quiet, barely-there smile.

"I was going to help you with that."

"I'm capable of wetting my hair, Sherlock." It comes out crabby, but Sherlock only shakes his head, still smiling.

"Close your eyes." John does so, and sighs when he feels Sherlock's fingers in his hair. Their rhythm is slow and gentle, as if Sherlock is trying to avoid making the slightest tangle, and John leans against the tub again and sighs once more, in satisfaction this time.

Sherlock says softly, "I was afraid you'd been taken again," as his fingers massage John's scalp. John opens his eyes for a moment, but decides there's no need for him to respond and lets them shut. "It's not an unreasonable assumption."

"There's usually a lag when you text me at work."

"No, I know. But I also know when you get off work, and when you didn't answer me then I went looking for you." Sherlock wipes lather from John's forehead and dips his hand in the water to rinse it off.

"And where," John murmurs, "would you look for me with no clues and no leads?"

"There are always clues, John. I started at your usual bus stop. When you weren't there I tried the restaurants you like to get supper, and after that I walked along the route for a while to see if you'd got off early."

"I think we just missed each other." He tilts back his head to look at Sherlock, and then winces and curses when an errant trickle of foam runs into his eyes.

"Hold still, I've got it." Water runs over John's face, and John wipes the rest away. He opens his eyes to see Sherlock dunking his hand under the water to fill a cupped palm, and when Sherlock says, "Tilt your head back," John does so. Sherlock's other hand cradles his head to hold it just above the water. Sherlock rinses his hair that way, with palm after palm of water, and then finally lowers John's head enough to let the water wash the rest away.

John sits up and splashes water on his face, feeling oddly embarrassed. This was presented to him as the same thing his barber's assistant does every six weeks, and yet it is completely different -- no professional distance, nothing mechanical or impersonal. Intimacy is still a strange concept to associate with Sherlock, no matter how they've been inching towards it these last weeks, and the act of bathing is a strange thing to share with his flatmate no matter what else they may do together.

He says, "It's telling that the first thing you think when I don't answer you right away is that someone's kidnapped me."

"Experience," says Sherlock and his fingers touch a faint scar on John's head, a souvenir from Moriarty's games. "You're where I'm vulnerable."

"If someone took Mycroft or Inspector Lestrade you'd find them," John argues.

Sherlock shrugs a shoulder as he trails his fingers through the water. "Out of professional courtesy," he says. "Out of brotherly obligation."

"And you'd look for me because you don't want to find a new flatmate."

Sherlock's fingers pause and his eyes meet John's. "You know that's no longer the case. It never really was." He stands and gets John's dressing gown from the back of the door -- a thicker, more practical affair than Sherlock's, made of a toweling material and long enough to drag on the floor if John's not paying attention. He hangs it from the towel rack, within John's reach. "I'll order supper. What are you hungry for?"

 _You_ , John thinks, and feels his face grow hot from something other than the bath water. "I don't know. You choose."

"All right. John." He hesitates, and John looks up at him, craning his neck to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Whatever happened today, it's over now."

"I can't just shrug it off."

"Did one of your patients die?"

John inhales slowly, closes his eyes, exhales. "No."

"Then what was it?"

"Please, Sherlock. Not now."

Sherlock is quiet, then nods with a soft, "Very well," and leaves the lav. John exhales again and stretches from toes to fingertips.

When he comes downstairs again, bathed and brushed and wearing fresh clothes, the flat smells like spices and warm tomato sauce. Technically Angelo's doesn't deliver, but Angelo makes all sort of exceptions for Sherlock and this is one more. On the partner's desk (since the kitchen table is still littered with papers, test tubes, petri dishes and swabs) there are two containers of pasta and another with salad, and a loaf of fresh-baked bread so warm John can see steam rising from it. Sherlock is reading, his tray container open, his fork twirling between his fingers like other people fidget with pencils.

He puts the book down but lays his fingers on the page to keep his place when John sits. "Oh, good. I was going to call you if you took any longer."

"I was starting to get waterlogged." John tears off a piece of bread and inhales the yeasty scent before he has a bite. "Have you eaten all you're going to eat already?"

"I was waiting for you."

"Oh. Thanks." He opens his tray. Sherlock has gotten his one of favorites, simple cheese ravioli in marinara sauce with mushrooms, and John concentrates on the food for a while. Sherlock eats more slowly, reading as his fork twirls slowly through his angel-hair pasta (nothing but olive oil and some kind of herb on it -- simple is best when one is tempting Sherlock's capricious appetite) and John looks out the window at the bustle of Baker Street when he doesn't look at the top of Sherlock's head.

"So what was it?" says Sherlock quietly as John helps himself to another serving of salad, and John's hands pause.

He swallows. "I had to call social services on the mum of one of my patients today." Sherlock looks up, frowning, and John wishes they'd got wine tonight so he'd have something to do with his hands. The mug of tea doesn't have quite the same effect, but he wraps his hands around it nonetheless. "I know I should be -- immune, I suppose, to a kid being smacked around, because God knows I've seen worse, but still." He gulps some tea, glad it's lukewarm enough to not burn his throat. "It hits a button."

"Your parents weren't abusive," says Sherlock, his tone only mildly questioning.

"Not in the same way," John says. "Neglectful. No matter. It's not about me. It's about that kid and his broken arm and how fucking scared he was of his mum. His _mum_ , Sherlock. And he still cried and didn't want to go when the social worker came to fetch him."

"You did the right thing."

"Did I? He's sleeping at a stranger's house tonight. And God only knows if his mum will seek help like she's supposed to." He stops and rubs his face, and Sherlock reaches across the desk to lay his hand over John's. "I couldn't just let him go, not with the evidence right in front of me. I couldn't just send him home for more of the same." He catches Sherlock's expression, something fond and warm, and says, "What?"

"You're a good man."

"Shut up," John mumbles and gets up to replenish his tea. Sherlock chuckles and returns to his book, and when John sits at the desk again he says, "Tell me why you texted me earlier."

"I wanted you home." Sherlock turns a page.

"For what?"

Sherlock looks up at him.

"You can say it, you know."

"I wanted you and you weren't home. But now you are. All's well."

"Of course," John says, feeling weary again.

"John?"

"I'm not in the mood --"

"You've already made that clear."

"-- to play this game tonight."

Sherlock closes his book and rest his chin on his intertwined fingers. "You've already said you weren't in the mood, so why are we having this conversation again?"

"Because sometimes I just want to go to bed with my lover and not have to negotiate it first," John says, all patience gone. "Or prearrange it, or dance around it, or anything that you seem to find necessary in order to keep your distance -- which, frankly, both of us are crap at. We're not just friends who fuck. You may have started this out of boredom but it's not about boredom anymore. There's an _us_ , Sherlock, and tonight I would like _us_ to go to bed and I would like _us_ to have sex because I would like _us_ to help me forget what a horrid day this was."

He closes his mouth and inhales, shuddering, and Sherlock blinks at him.

"Sorry. Sorry. I can't --" John stares down at his empty plate, not sure if he's going to cry or is just supremely embarrassed. "I can't believe I just said that."

"People get addicted to the endorphins having sex with a particular partner produces," Sherlock says. "Colloquially, the more you have sex with someone, the more you want to."

"Your point?"

"I'm not surprised you want to have sex tonight after all. You want comfort, you associate comfort with sex, you associate sex with me." Shrug. _Ipso facto_.

"I'm not addicted to your endorphins," John mutters.

"Don't ever call me your lover again and we should be fine." He rises from the desk and gathers their plates, and carries them into the kitchen. John watches him go. Sherlock is full of surprises tonight.

"Why not?" John says quietly to Sherlock's back. "You are. And I'm yours."

"Did you say something, John?" Sherlock calls from the kitchen, and John mutters, "No."

He hears Sherlock return, and feels Sherlock's hands on his shoulders. They begin to rub, deep and soothing, and John sighs, relaxing again.

"You did," Sherlock says, his voice a low rumble. "You said, 'You are.' Which is true, I suppose. I'd prefer another word but there isn't one."

John moans as Sherlock's thumbs dig into the base of his skull.

"I think I prefer partner," Sherlock muses, "but that has meaning for you that I don't wish to usurp. And boyfriend -- no. No."

John opens his eyes, surprised that Sherlock remembered Stewart. He tilts back his head -- Sherlock's face looks even more otherworldly from this angle -- and lifts his arms to grasp Sherlock's. "You took care of me tonight. You can't tell me it's just physical release for you anymore."

Sherlock sighs. "Why can't it continue being friendship, John?"

"Because you wanted to blow me against the door." John lowers his arms again. "And it didn't end there." He pauses, his head lolling as Sherlock continues massaging his neck. "Why am I where you're vulnerable, Sherlock?"

"Because you're my friend. You are the most important person in this world to me. People know this, people who want to stop me, people who'd harm you to stop me. Moriarty --" Sherlock stops, and his fingers dig into John's shoulders for a moment. "I won't let anyone hurt you again."

"They won't. All that ugliness out there, it stays out there when the door is closed. We've made something here, Sherlock," John says, and he turns in the chair and looks up at Sherlock, who moves his hands to frame John's face. "Out there, it's terrible. People are terrible, they're cruel and vicious, there's greed and betrayal and no end of pain. But that ends once the door shuts." He lays a hand on Sherlock's hip, a smooth curve from ribs to thigh, muscles lean and taut. "Here, we've got something safe and -- and beautiful, really."

There's a pause, before Sherlock says in a slightly amused tone, "Really, John, you do come up with the oddest notions," and bends to place a cool kiss on John's forehead. "You wanted a quiet night in. I assume that means telly."

"Sherlock," says John, frustrated. "It's not an odd notion. It's the truth. All I want all day is to come home to you. I want to close the door between us and everything ugly out there. Is that so strange?"

"Yes, because you certainly take your time some days."

"Sometimes I fight it," says John, eyes widening with realization. "I don't want to want you too much. I don't want to be -- dependent. On you. Though it seems to have happened nonetheless."

"Now you're being quite ridiculous. You're not dependent on me."

"I live for the time we spend together," John says, grasping Sherlock's hip more tightly, and Sherlock falls silent, the indulgent expression gone. "Take me to bed," he says in a low voice, and Sherlock tilts his face up.

"I thought you weren't in the mood."

"I wasn't. Now I am."

Sherlock's thumbs flick under John's eyes, tracing his lashes. "This is a simplistic reaction to a complicated problem," he murmurs but bends to kiss John anyway, his mouth, no longer cool, opening against John's, tongue plunging in the moment John's lips part. He pulls John out of the chair, still bent over him, kissing him and running his hands over John's head and into his hair as they stumble to Sherlock's bedroom.

Simplistic or not, it's a good idea, a perfect idea -- what he wants is to curl up against Sherlock and bask in his warm skin, be comforted by his hands and his mouth, find that oblivion he's been longing for in Sherlock's gorgeous long body. Sherlock's hands can rewrite history, Sherlock's mouth makes miracles happen.

He strips off Sherlock's clothes and tumbles him onto the bed. Sherlock strokes and caresses him, sucking kisses onto his neck and chest. They are not careful with each other tonight -- they are hungry, desperate, teeth scraping, nails scratching.

Sherlock groans when John slides fingers into his mouth. He clutches John's wrist and sucks on them hard, hips bucking against John's, legs entangled. John jerks against him, trembling at the heat of Sherlock's wet mouth, and finally pulls them out and pushes them into Sherlock's tight, yearning body. Sherlock groans deeply, fingers digging into John's hips, and he whispers, "Take what you need, take what you want from me."

It shatters John completely, that open look in Sherlock's eyes, the unfamiliar generosity of his words. Usually Sherlock offers and John accepts, or Sherlock asks and John gives; but this is something wholly new, something that makes John drop his head to Sherlock's chest and gasp for air.

There were times in Afghanistan (pre-Stewart, and sometimes mid-Stewart) when it felt daring and death-defying to have sex, like leaping off a cliff into icy water. It was a shock to feel his heart pumping and his skin burning, to feel alive, to _feel_. They'd plunged into it because to do otherwise was to let their situation control them, and no one wanted that, no one wanted to admit defeat.

It's like that all the time with Sherlock, but John's known that ever since the first time he ran after Sherlock, after that cab. Sherlock is the war zone, Sherlock is walls shaking and roofs crumbling, Sherlock is losing one's breath with wonder and making the world right one battle at a time.

It's never a fight _with_ Sherlock, thank God. Their bed is never a battlefield. The world could fall apart and this little flat would stay standing. This bed would be the safety zone, like when he and Harry were kids and would make believe the floor was lava and they had to make their way from chair to bureau to bed so they could sail away. (Harry would load on her toys and John would add his and they'd forget they loathed each other because they wanted so badly to escape.)

He wants to tell Sherlock, _Remember this, it's important,_ but what exactly _it_ is gets lost in thrashing long limbs and scraping fingertips, in the lovely low sounds that rumble through Sherlock's chest, in wild dark hair that catches on John's fingers and the hot mouth that spills so many words and takes John in so readily.

If Sherlock is the ocean, depthless and brilliant and dangerous, calm and shining one moment and broiling and deadly the next, then John is more than willing to jump in. Maybe even drown.

*

"I wanted oblivion," John whispers into the back of Sherlock's neck. His hands are on Sherlock's chest, measuring heartbeats. Sherlock's legs are folded with his, and the toes of Sherlock's right foot are absently, repeatedly, stroking the sole of John's left. Sherlock smells like sex and it's decadent and delicious, and John wants to lick his skin and taste them again, coat his tongue with it.

Sherlock makes a questioning sort of mumble and rubs his cheek on John's arm. There's the faintest scrape of stubble, and John hopes his face is pink with beard-burn tomorrow. He wants that, too, like he wants the lovebites Sherlock sometimes leaves on his throat and the scratches Sherlock sometimes leaves on his thighs and back. He's greedy to be claimed. "I wanted to forget."

"And did you?" Sherlock's voice is a mere rumble, words slurring, all clarity lost. Fair enough. It'll be back. "Did it work?"

"It worked." He moves his thumb over Sherlock's breastbone. "It worked enough."

"Good." Sherlock turns back his head just enough for their eyes to meet. He isn't smiling but he looks contented, like he got whatever he needed tonight, too. He lifts John's hand to his mouth and kisses the palm, open-mouthed, and lays it on his chest again.

John buries his face in Sherlock's neck and holds him closer, thoughts starting to cohere again. Sherlock may pretend it's purely physical all he wants, but they both know it's not just that anymore, don't they? Two consenting adults who like each other, are attracted to each other, are -- maybe -- dependent on each other for all the things that make life bearable, happiness and comfort -- and Sherlock just feels like home, the flat is only be a set of rooms without him --

John presses his lips to Sherlock's ear, meaning to tell him, God, he doesn't know, maybe _I want to make the world quiet for you,_ but what comes out is, "I love you."

Sherlock goes very still.

John squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks, _Oh, no._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John loves that Sherlock isn't like other people, except when his other-ness gets in the way.

Rivers carve plains into canyons and mountains are worn down to pebbles before either of them move or speak. John inhales to explain, maybe amend it to _I love your body, I love having sex with you, I love falling asleep to the sound of your breathing,_ when Sherlock rolls onto John and pins his hands over his head. Sherlock's expression is fierce and frightened, and John's heart slams against his ribs with wanting him again.

"Don't say that to me," Sherlock hisses. "Don't _ever_ say that to me."

"Sherlock," John begins but Sherlock throws himself off John and scoops up his dressing gown, pulls it around himself and belts it tightly. John says wearily, "It's too late for modesty now," as he kicks the duvet aside. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching Sherlock as he paces and shoves his hands through his hair, and remembers Mycroft saying _He does love to be dramatic._

John represses the urge to giggle.

He loves Sherlock's drama. He loves Sherlock's moods. He loves Sherlock's odd, unique face, the thunderclouds that can hover in his eyes and the sudden sunshine when something catches his interest. He loves the contentment Sherlock wears after sex, how he won't smile with his mouth but it's visible in the lines around his eyes and the set of his lips. He even loves Sherlock's face now, uncertain and angry, because it's Sherlock's face.

He says softly, "I love you," and Sherlock whirls on him, lips curling back from his teeth.

"Stop saying that!"

"I can't help it." John smiles at him. He's never been afraid of Sherlock and certainly isn't now, with perspiration still drying on his skin and the taste of Sherlock in his mouth. "I love you. And you love me, too," he adds, because it couldn't be more obvious if someone had written it across the sky. How had he not seen it all this time? Probably because he didn't want to see. "You wouldn't have been so tender with me today if you didn't."

"You have no idea what I feel."

"I have a better idea than you do." John leans back on his elbows and wants to laugh when Sherlock averts his eyes. "Don't be a blushing maiden, Sherlock. For God's sake, I was _inside you_ not ten minutes ago."

"Yes, I know!" Sherlock spits. "That was all it was ever supposed to be!"

"Most people are pleased when they learn they're loved."

"I'm not most people."

John can't keep the affection out of his voice. "No, you're not."

"John, stop! Don't. Don't. I can't -- I don't --" He growls in frustration. "It doesn't _fit_."

"We fit together perfectly," John says gently. "Come back to bed. Let me show you how well we fit."

"It doesn't fit _here_ ," Sherlock says, his fingers digging into his temples. "It's too much, it's too big, I can't make it _fit."_

"Too big?" He reaches for Sherlock but Sherlock steps back as if he's afraid of being mauled. "Sherlock, it's not like trying to comprehend infinity --"

"Child's play."

"-- it's just love."

Sherlock glares at him.

John sighs and rubs his eyes a moment. He suspects he fell in love the first time Sherlock explained his deductions (in the cab, about his phone, on their way to see the body of Jennifer Wilson -- he killed a man for Sherlock that night, and he often asks himself why and has no other answer than _I had no choice_ because he knew, even then, that a world without Sherlock Holmes was not a world in which he wanted to live), and has just been living with that knowledge in the back of his mind ever since. The sex has only reinforced it, given layers to their friendship like the folds of steel that make a sword.

Despite all that, Sherlock is still Sherlock, impossible and strange and not like other people. John loves that he's not like other people, except when that other-ness gets in the way. "Tell me why it doesn't fit."

"Because if you love me then everything I know is wrong."

"Everything you know about what? About _me_? Sherlock, you do know everything about me, you know things I don't even know about myself."

"You had a long-term girlfriend," Sherlock says. "You sought out a new girlfriend as soon as you could after you were discharged. You ask women out -- you _asked_ women out -- all the time, whether you thought you had a chance with them or not. You consider yourself something of a ladies' man, not without reason, and women like you return. You love women, John." He breathes in. "For you, men are just for sex."

John furrows his eyebrows. "No, I've never thought that."

Sherlock shoves his hands into his hair again. "That was my mistake. There's always something, some clue I miss, something I don't see until it's too late. I should have ended this the moment you told me about Stewart Radcliffe. I should have known, should have realized, but instead I thought it was just a wartime romance and had nothing to do with us. Stupid, _stupid_."

"So," John says slowly, "you chose me because you knew I'd like the sex but didn't think I would fall in love with you. You thought I was -- what, exactly? Using you?"

"That we both would get what we want," says Sherlock, arm flailing out. "You'd have your needs fulfilled and I'd get to keep my flatmate instead of watching you chase after women who don't deserve you."

John blinks at him. He says softly, "And you want to convince me you don't love me."

"Shut up!"

"Why? What are you so afraid of?" He gets out of bed and takes hold of Sherlock's dressing gown, the material spillery against his fingers. "Come back to bed. We don't have to talk anymore."

"More sex will only make it worse," Sherlock whispers but he crawls onto John nonetheless. He lets John push off the dressing gown, folds John within his arms and legs, takes John into him, and John tries not to believe this is the last time.

*

In the morning Sherlock is gone. Not in his bed, not in John's, not on the sofa, not anywhere in the flat.

John's phone flashes the light that means he has a text waiting. John rubs his eyes and reads it, a message that fills him with resignation.

"I need time. SH."

John taps out, "Come home soon. I miss you," and sends the message. He rises, showers, makes tea, the phone within reach the entire time in case Sherlock calls or texts again.

It's a slow and lonely day, even though he watches some telly with Mrs. Hudson (who finds nothing strange about Sherlock's absence, which makes John feel it even more keenly) and gets phone calls from both Harry and Mike Stamford. He tells them both he's doing fine, and then lies on the sofa and listens to violin CDs for a while. (Sherlock is fond of Itzhak Perlman, though John is drawn to Vanessa Mae.)

The call from Mycroft on the second day is a welcome interruption. "He's fine," Mycroft says without preamble. "He's safe."

"Where is he? When is he coming home?"

"Safe, and not yet," says Mycroft. "I can attempt to convince him, though I'd prefer he didn't know I'm watching him just yet."

"No," John says. "He won't listen to either of us. Thanks for letting me know."

"Yes," says Mycroft simply and hangs up.

The phone rings late on the third night -- Lestrade, looking for Sherlock. "He's not answering his phone."

"He's not answering me, either."

"Is he sick?"

"He's…" John rubs his hand over his eyes. "Thinking."

"So help me, John, if he's using again --"

"I don't think he is."

"Then what _is_ he doing?"

John says softly, "Making a decision," and smiles wryly as Lestrade lets loose a string of emphatic curses.

"Tell him to call me the moment he contacts you," says Lestrade and hangs up, too.

John switches to the text message application and types, "Come home. We're all worried about you."

He falls asleep with the phone in his hand, and its vibration wakes him. He squints at the screen, which reads, "Not yet. SH."

"Why?" John types, frustrated, horny, missing him so much it's an actual pain in his gut, in his chest. "Come home. I miss you. I want you. I'll never say I love you again if you'll just come home."

Strange, he thinks after he's sent the message, with anyone else the promise would be to say I love you more often, to only say it if he meant it, to mean it.

He curses and types another text, "And call Lestrade. I think he has a case for you to solve."

No answer to that, either, but John thinks gloomily it's more likely Sherlock will talk to Lestrade than anyone else in their circle right now. He texts, "Just let me know you're all right."

Sherlock's answer comes after just a few minutes. "I am. SH."

John stares at it and wonders if he should answer or if that would just spook Sherlock further. His question is answered, however, when Sherlock texts him again, "Lestrade has a case for us. SH." The next text is an address.

John thinks he shouldn't be so pleased, considering that someone else is suffering tonight, but he still gets up and dresses and catches a cab to meet Sherlock.

*

It's a kidnapping this time, a nine-year-old boy named James Lennox. Sherlock pokes around the boy's bedroom even though Mrs. Lennox insists the boy was taken from school, and John tries to assure her that Sherlock is just gathering as much data as he can.

"Who usually picks James up from school?" John asks her gently, hoping he's being helpful.

"His father. It was his father's turn today, the bastard. He never could look after James properly." She dabs her face with tissues. All of her makeup has already been washed or wept off, and she's removed all of her jewelry, as well. "Oh, Mr. Watson, why is this happening to me?"

John makes comforting noises and looks at Sherlock, who is focused on a photograph of the boy and his parents -- no, just the boy and his father -- on the boy's bedside table. He picks up a letter and hands it to John, and John scans over it quickly. It seems ordinary enough, addressed to "Dear Jamie," signed, "Love, Daddy," and is just a little bedtime story about a bear and a rabbit and a vole having an adventure on a boat. (Heavily influenced by _The Wind In the Willows_ , if John remembers correctly.) He gives the letter back to Sherlock, not certain why it's important, and then follows after Sherlock as he sweeps out.

"She was unusually nervous," Sherlock remarks as they walk away from the house, past the police cars. It's a posh neighborhood and none of their neighbors are watching from their front steps, though John can see the occasional curtain stirring as someone peeps out at the flashing lights.

"Her child's been taken, Sherlock. Of course she's upset."

"Not upset, John. Nervous. She's hiding something." He turns to look back at the house, walking backwards for a few steps. "Where is Mr. Lennox tonight?"

"Out looking, I assume."

"Never assume," Sherlock says. "He's no longer living in the house. Separation and a custody battle brewing."

"You think Lennox took the boy? Parents do -- kidnap their own children because they think they won't be awarded custody, or they're not awarded custody and refuse to go along with the agreement."

"I don't think it's that," says Sherlock, shaking his head. "The divorce is not yet begun and she's already stopped wearing her wedding band."

"Hiding it," John murmurs.

"She's got a lover waiting in the wings. In her mind the marriage is over. You heard the way she talks about Mr. Lennox, how she referred to him. She's laying groundwork."

"She arranged the kidnapping," John clarifies.

"Yes. Likely her lover has the boy, or someone else she trusts and has the same goal as she."

"God," John says, weary. "Why would a mother do that to her own child?"

"To hurt her husband, of course," says Sherlock. "Make him look like an incompetent guardian in the worst way possible."

"All so she doesn't have to share their child with him on weekends and holidays. She must hate him."

"Passionate love turns to passionate hate every day," says Sherlock mildly, but the look he gives John is almost burning.

John says hesitantly, "Look, Sherlock," but then Lestrade pulls up -- he has the boy's ashen-faced father with him and he wants Sherlock to question him. John keeps his thoughts to himself for a while longer.

*

It takes Sherlock's relentless questioning to get Mrs. Lennox to break down and admit the kidnapping was her doing, and the Met locate the boy from the clues she gives. Jamie is found unharmed and badly frightened, and at the police station he throws himself into his father's arms.

The sun is just starting to come up as Sherlock and John leave Scotland Yard. John says, "Breakfast?" like it's an ordinary day, one of dozens they've had by now -- as if, like any of those times, they'll eat breakfast and then go home and shag until they fall asleep. He loved those days. He misses those days.

"Starving," says Sherlock. They glance at each other and just as quickly glance away.

 _I can't bear this_ , thinks John, but he doesn't know what to do to solve it, either. If they go back to how things were -- well, they can't ever go back, and he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to be just Sherlock's flatmate again. Despite his denials he is addicted to Sherlock's endorphins, completely infatuated with his body, desperate for his presence.

They find a little café just opening up for the day, and take a table on the sidewalk. It's cool out, with the promise of springtime warmth later, and John wraps his hands around his coffee cup and just breathes in its heat for a bit. Sherlock had bought a paper while they walked, and he flips through it while John sips and thinks.

Finally John puts down his cup and says, "Sherlock," and Sherlock folds the paper with a sigh.

"I suppose we must do this."

"Yes, we must. You disappeared for three days, Sherlock."

"I was fine, John."

"I didn't know where you were. Nobody did. Well, Mycroft did, but you knew that, right? You know he always knows where you are."

Sherlock pulls off his gloves and picks up his coffee cup. "I told you I was safe."

"The point, Sherlock," says John, leaning forward, "is that I _like_ knowing where you are and where you're sleeping and if you're eating properly. I _like_ being the one who feeds you and sleeps with you." He adds, when Sherlock only sips his coffee and gazes elsewhere, "I missed you."

Sherlock sips. How he manages to wear the same clothes and not bathe for three days and still look so polished and stylish is just one of the mysteries of being Sherlock. He says quietly, setting down his cup, "I missed you, too. I'm … used to you. But this isn't what I wanted, John, not this -- _relationship_."

"You just wanted someone to have sex with," says John, and it's a law in restaurants that when you say something truly embarrassing and revealing, that's when the server brings your food. John waits until the boy has put down their plates of omelets and toast and gone back into the café. He says quietly, "Look, I understand, I get that, I've done it myself. But one-night stands and dirty weekends aren't the same sleeping with your flatmate for months." Sherlock frowns deeply at his coffee cup, and John sighs. "You understand people so well, and yet you can't understand this."

Sherlock eats his toast slowly, not looking at John. John throws up his hands and starts eating, hoping the nourishment will prevent him from saying something foolish.

When his omelet is mostly gone, John says slowly, "If you absolutely can't bear that I love you, I should move out."

Sherlock looks up at him sharply.

"I can't take it back, Sherlock. I can't pretend it isn't true. It's out there. It exists. I love you and I --" He swallows. "I hated the last few days, but I'd hate it worse if I had to live with you and couldn't touch you again. I can't pretend I don't love you."

Sherlock stares at him, his face blank.

"All right," John says wearily and crosses his knife and fork on his plate. "I'll just need a few days to find a place and pack my things. I'll try to keep out of your way."

He expects an argument -- hopes for one, in fact -- but instead Sherlock's eyes lower and he murmurs, "Are you over Stewart Radcliffe, John?"

"Stewart?" John says. "Why? He's not a part of this. What -- are you afraid -- God, I don't even know where to start. Look, if you think I go round comparing you to him, I don't. The two of you couldn't be more different. It's not even apples and oranges -- it's more like chalk and cheese. The cliffs of Dover and cheese, even. Different lives, different worlds. Definitely a different me."

"So you are not over him."

"I still love him," says John. "I hope I always will. I thought he was the love of my life, but he's gone. You're _here_ , Sherlock. You're not a substitute. You're not a distraction. You're not a toy."

"Then what am I?"

John pauses and looks at him. Sherlock's expression is still blank, or struggling to stay blank -- it would look blank to anyone who didn't know Sherlock, hadn't seen the hurt and disappointment that could flit through his eyes.

He says softly, "Sherlock."

Sherlock swallows and looks out at the street. Slowly, it's starting to grow busy as people begin their daily routines, breakfast on the way to work or hurrying to work itself. He says softly and deliberately, as if choosing each word with care, "I … have never been … anyone's."

"Anyone's what?" John whispers.

Sherlock looks at him. "Anything."

*

They go back to the flat. It's early in the day but they're both tired, or at least John is tired and Sherlock is quiet. John wants to reach for Sherlock's hand but they're still not quite there yet. Elbows brush as they walk, though, and John enjoys those brief, simple touches as much as the fact that Sherlock is allowing them.

When they reach Baker Street, John takes off his jacket as he climbs the stairs. He stretches out his back and twists from the waist, seeking relief from the stress of the night -- and the days that preceded it, if he's honest with himself. Sherlock is safe and home in their snug little flat, and even if they don't know where they're going, they do know where they are. It's an improvement.

When he glances downstairs, Sherlock is still at the bottom, watching him. John starts to invite him up, but only nods and continues to his room. He undresses and crawls under the duvet, and then looks up with surprise when Sherlock appears in the doorway. "Could we," Sherlock begins, and then swallows.

"Come here, Sherlock," John says, and Sherlock gets into bed with him, still dressed, his long pale toes cool against John's feet. They don't embrace, but they lie close enough that John can feel Sherlock breathing and the warmth of his skin.

"I've never been the love of someone's life," Sherlock whispers. His hands are curled together and tucked under his chin. It makes him look achingly young.

"Yes, you have," John says. "You're mine."

"Don't be absurd, John. You're not going to love me for the rest of your life."

"How about you let me decide that," says John, and he pauses a moment as if he's thinking it over. "Yes. Definitely. You're it. You're the one for me."

Sherlock shakes his head. "You can't know that."

"Yes, you can. I can."

"I'm sure the Lennoxes thought the same thing when they were first married, and now look at them."

"Well, we're not the Lennoxes. We're John and Sherlock." He leans his head against Sherlock's. "We've already been through the fire."

Sherlock is quiet for a while, and John closes his eyes and lets himself drift. He opens them again when Sherlock whispers, "You're right. We've been tested. When I say I'd do anything for you, I truly would do anything." He gazes at John with wonder, the morning sun softening his features and making his eyes look stunningly blue, clear as the springtime sky. "Including love you."

John smiles. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes wide, and John laughs and kisses his forehead. "Take a moment to recover, it's all right. Your first I love you is a big deal." He plays with Sherlock's hair and Sherlock moves closer to him with a quiet sigh.

"I'm terrified, John."

"Why?"

"I don't trust happiness. It's too elusive and indefinable."

"I think it's simple," John says. "It's this. It's a perfect spring morning, you've made the world a better place once again, and we can do anything we want today. Including just sleep. If that's what we want."

"Is that you want?" Sherlock says, starting to smile. "To sleep all day?"

John shakes his head, and then makes a muffled groan when Sherlock hauls him close and kisses him. John wraps himself around Sherlock and kisses him fiercely, relief flooding him. He'd missed this so much, Sherlock's lips and scent and skin, their fingers twined together and Sherlock's legs around his hips.

Sherlock rolls them over, to kneel over John and strip off his clothes. John watches him with wide eyes and runs his hands over Sherlock's chest and shoulders, whispering his appreciation, how beautiful Sherlock is, how loved. Sherlock tugs on John's pyjamas and tosses them out of the way, then stretches over him, perspiration springing up on his skin, familiar and comforting. He kisses John, slow, deep, wet, and his mouth tastes so good that John clutches Sherlock to him to just kiss for a while.

Sherlock mouths his way over John's chest, down his abdomen, as John groans and rakes his hand through Sherlock's hair. He digs his fingers into Sherlock's scalp as that beautiful mouth sucks him, and he watches Sherlock for as long as he can bear until he has to twist his face away, his eyes squeezed shut, his fingers knotted in Sherlock's hair, as he cries out again and again and Sherlock swallows him, his fist twisting against John's hip bone.

As he gasps for breath Sherlock crawls up his body and presses their noses together. His lips taste like come and John licks at him greedily, sliding his fingers into Sherlock's damp hair. "Let me," Sherlock whispers and John says, "Yes," even before he's done speaking, and Sherlock shivers down his spine and kisses John with more ferocity.

He kneels between John's thighs and gets a condom from John's drawer, slips it on and pushes slicked fingers into John. John's body arches and he gasps, "Fuck, I want you, fuck me, Sherlock," and Sherlock bends over him to kiss him, tongues touching before their lips meet.

Sherlock's first thrust is so powerful John shouts, not bothering to hold it in as Sherlock opens him. His fists press into Sherlock's back and he buries his face in Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock whispers, "John," and kisses his hair. Sherlock's arms slide under John to hold him tighter. His rhythm is purposeful and just this side of rough, and when John focuses hazily on Sherlock's eyes they're summer-storm dark and wide with wonder.

John lifts his head and kisses Sherlock, and Sherlock kisses John eagerly, hungrily, no longer miserly with his kisses. John basks in them, sucks on Sherlock's mouth and rocks his body to meet Sherlock's. Sherlock moans against his lips as he shoves into John's body, perspiration making John's hands slide over Sherlock's skin, and John moans to encourage him. His body shivers under John's hands, his hand trembling on John's hip, and he groans wordlessly as until his hips slow and stop.

John holds him, ankles crossed behind Sherlock's back, kisses his forehead and rakes his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He coaxes Sherlock's head against his neck and Sherlock gulps air, his nose in the hollow of John's throat. John strokes Sherlock's slick back and eventually lowers his legs to frame Sherlock's narrow hips with his knees. He traces Sherlock's profile with his fingertip and smiles when it passes over Sherlock's lips and gets a kiss.

Sherlock buries his face in John's neck and mumbles something. John tilts his face up. "What?"

"I said, I'm still terrified."

John pulls back, brows drawing together. "Why?"

"Because as good as I feel right now, that's how horrible it will be when you leave."

"I'm not going to leave."

Sherlock sighs and pulls out of John carefully, making John grunt with loss, and curls against John's side. "You say that now."

John folds an arm around Sherlock and traces over his smooth back. "I say it for always. I'm not going to break your heart."

Sherlock blinks at him, then smiles just enough and rolls John onto his back for more kisses. John laughs and kisses him back. "I trust you," Sherlock whispers. "I'm terrified, but I trust you."

"I couldn't ask for more," John tells him, and then they stop talking for a while because there are kisses to be shared.

*

John is on his way home from the shops, canvas shopping bags slung over his shoulder, when his phone vibrates. He smiles and takes it out of his pocket, and smiles wider when he sees the text from Sherlock. "Where are you? SH."

"Coming home."

"Hurry. SH."

"Yes, dear," John types and tucks his phone in his shirt pocket. It buzzes against his chest and he takes it out again.

"What are you wearing? SH."

John laughs and types, "Exactly what I was wearing an hour ago."

"Indulge me. SH."

John stops and thinks, and types out, "Tight white t-shirt and leather trousers. You?" He keeps the phone out as he walks, and laughs out loud when it vibrates with Sherlock's answer.

End.


End file.
